


Heart of Ashes

by InFamousHero



Series: Heart of Ashes Verse [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, No Faction War, Old Gods, Slow Burn, They had something during Wrath, Trauma, Vampirism, broke apart b/c ICC was awful, but now they're Feeling Things again and that's Mortifying, they're idiots your honour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InFamousHero/pseuds/InFamousHero
Summary: That damned smirk remained. “Are youvolunteering?” Sylvanas asked in a low, conspiratorial voice that positively oozed with provocation.Anduin, Genn and Nathanos were deathly silent, the kind of silence one fell into when they desperately hoped to go unnoticed.Nostrils flaring, Jaina glared. “And what if I am, Warchief, afraid of one little mage looking over your shoulder?”-AKA Battle for Azeroth but what if there wasn't a faction war and it's about two traumatised women falling in love at the end of the world?
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Series: Heart of Ashes Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164899
Comments: 571
Kudos: 700





	1. Witness Me

**Author's Note:**

> Look, the faction war made fools, hypocrites, or senseless monsters of everyone involved and reduced us all by many a brain cell, so we're not having one. This is also my first time writing Sylvaina and I am slightly terrified after reading so many good fics but in the year of our continued hell 2021 what is there to be afraid of, really.
> 
> Alterations to canon have been lifted from my other warcraft fics, the most impactful change being from [The Judgement of Helheim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757710). You don't have to read it to understand, as it will be explained, but it's there if you want to.

The guards certainly _tried_ to stop her but there was precious little they could do when she could freeze them in place with a flick of her hand and open the door they were watching with a familiarity that left the arcane mechanism locking it barely even a whisper of resistance. The Violet Citadel had many such chambers, from grand to modest, for whatever function was required at the time, a ball, a conference, peace talks.

Neutral ground was a valuable commodity.

The chamber in question was on the modest end, more for meetings, and had not a single window for the sake of privacy and whatever sensitive subjects were to be discussed in such a space. A cluster of three crystal pendant lights illuminated it, washing the hardwood floor and pale brickwork in warm light.

Her boots were much too loud as she strode inside. She ignored the dull ache running the length of her spine as four pairs of eyes turned on her, the conversation dying at her arrival. She expected more of them, to find the table before her flanked by at least a dozen tense, bickering faces, not—

“Jaina,” Anduin blurted out her name as if she was catching him with his hand in a jar. The chair legs scraped as he stood, an awkward smile taking over his face. “I didn’t know you were in Dalaran.”

“She wasn’t,” said Genn, who leaned out from Anduin’s left to offer an acknowledging nod. He sat partially slouched with his arms crossed, looking bored and miserable in equal measure. “Come to watch the farce, have you?”

Anduin turned on him with an admonishing glare and Genn had the good graces to look ever so _slightly_ ashamed.

“You can’t be serious,” Jaina muttered, moving to the edge of the table. “You’re really going through with it?” She fixed her eyes on the only other occupants, sitting across from Anduin and Genn in silent judgement.

The Warchief was as severe a sight as usual, sitting with her elbows on the table and hands joined in a steeple over which she watched Jaina, red eyes inscrutable if not for the hint of a smirk at the edge of her lips, expectant, perhaps, or challenging.

Nathanos bristled next to her having evidently refused to sit, glowering and tense like a hound ready to lunge if need be. He always struck Jaina not as a man but contempt given physical form and free reign to roam the land, and the way he looked at her now did nothing to lessen that.

Genn grunted, “Regrettably.” He ignored the second look Anduin sent him and got to his feet, smoothing out the creases of his coat.

“Whatever scene you hoped to make here, Lady Proudmoore, you’re a touch late,” drawled Sylvanas.

Jaina pointedly ignored her in favour of Anduin. “It won’t be enough. We’ve been here before and it was never enough, you are making a mistake.” _You’re making_ my _mistake,_ she wanted to say but swallowed. Anduin had a good heart, a gentle heart, one that only wanted peace in a world starved of it, and she saw too much of her younger self in that to just let him barrel head-long into it.

She paid _dearly_ for that mistake and for a moment she had to fight down the image of violet ashes and floating corpses. The thought of the same happening to Anduin made her stomach lurch and boil like a live thing attempting to escape out her throat.

His brows drew together. “This time will be different,” he said gently, and his sincerity almost burned her, “the people involved are different, our world is different.”

She shook her head. “The Horde will only use this as an opportunity to recover strength.”

“As I recall,” Nathanos snipped, “it wasn’t the _Horde_ who tried to start a war at the height of the Legion invasion.”

Genn snarled, “Our King died because of your cowardice!”

Anduin swept his arm out in front of Genn. “Enough!” he commanded, then softened his voice from its stern edge to say, “My _father_ gave his life for Azeroth, as did Vol’jin, they both did. We must try to move forward for the good of everyone. Fighting now will only endanger our world at a time when it desperately needs us to work together.”

Jaina lifted her chin. “And you expect them to ‘honour’ that?” she asked sharply, “it’s not enough.”

Smoothly rising from her chair, Sylvanas slipped her hands behind her back in casual militancy, easily standing taller than everyone else in the room. “Do you have a suggestion, Proudmoore, or are you just here to posture?” she asked, that irritating hint of a smirk growing as she did so.

The back of Jaina’s neck prickled and she clenched her jaw. “Yes, actually,” she said hotly, “I think you need a _minder_ , someone who can bear witness and verify your, I’m _certain_ , very sincere efforts to ensure the peace is maintained.”

Outrage darkened Nathanos’s face but Sylvanas lifted a hand without taking her eyes off Jaina, and he shut his mouth.

Sylvanas slowly approached with an air of assurance Jaina did not care for until she was all but looming, and Jaina lifted her chin, staring up into Sylvanas’s shadowed face and the burning coals that served as her eyes. She was all points and sharp edges, as proud and fierce looking up close as Jaina remembered.

The smell of tulips touched her nose, tulips and strange metal, like ozone layered over freshly bloodied iron. It roused memories of Northrend and Jaina barely resisted the urge to back away, instead squaring her shoulders and continuing to meet Sylvanas’s stare.

That damned smirk remained. “Are you _volunteering_?” Sylvanas asked in a low, conspiratorial voice that positively oozed with provocation, and the air left the room.

Anduin, Genn and Nathanos were deathly silent, the kind of silence one fell into when they desperately hoped to go unnoticed.

Nostrils flaring, Jaina glared. “And what if I am, _Warchief_ , afraid of one little mage looking over your shoulder?”

Sylvanas’s eyes flicked briefly to top of her head, which only just reached chin height on the insufferable elf. “I wasn’t aware you could reach that high,” she deadpanned.

Icily, Jaina said, “I’ll manage.”

“So, you mean to shadow me and uncover all my _nefarious_ schemes to threaten the Alliance. Do tell me what happens when you find none.”

“I continue until such a time I deem it unnecessary.”

“Is that so? I do hope you enjoy getting dust in your robes, Proudmoore, so much of my time is spent in Orgrimmar these days.”

Jaina opened her mouth to retort only for Anduin to break from the silent compact he had with the two other men in the room and stumble out a quick, “hold on!”

He nearly withered when she and Sylvanas both looked at him and he held up his hands. “This is all quite sudden and unplanned but if we’re going to do this then I insist that it be fair and mutual,” he said, “the Alliance has its share of wrongs and bad actors, and the Horde has just as little reason to trust me and mine. There should be a Witness to the High King, someone you trust to carry out such a task.”

Sylvanas regarded him from the corner of her eye a moment. Without moving her head her eyes slid back to Jaina and the smirk was finally gone. Bluntly she said, “Nathanos.”

The man in question started as if someone had dropped an especially slimy eel down the back of his coat. For a second he looked ready to sputter out a refusal but he lowered his head, just enough to be respectful, and sighed, “by your command.”

Sylvanas smiled coldly, just enough to show her fangs, and Jaina narrowed her eyes. “Details can be worked out at a later date but for now,” Sylvanas said, lowering her head and her voice, “does that satisfy you, Proudmoore?”

Jaina scowled. “For now.”

Sylvanas straightened, canting her head in a mock bow. “Are we done here, Your Highness?” she asked without taking her eyes on Jaina. For whatever reason, the taunting gesture didn’t colour her voice when addressing him, as if she were actually trying to be respectful or something close to it.

Anduin let out a long breath and nodded. “Yes, for now,” he said, and added quietly, “Thank the Light.”

With that, Sylvanas calmly walked from the room, quickly shadowed by a still unsettled looking Nathanos.

A pair of flustered Kirin Tor guards stumbled in after them and Anduin lifted his hands. “We’re fine!” he insisted, “please return to your posts, we’re fine, thank you.”

They took a moment to scowl at Jaina before they returned to the door.

Jaina rounded on Anduin. “What are you _thinking_?” she demanded, incredulous. “Allowing an elite agent of the Horde into the heart of Stormwind?”

Anduin clasped his hands, rocking slightly on his heels. “Did the Warchief not just allow the same of us with zero warning that such a demand would be made by an uninvited party?” He spoke gently but the words may as well have been delivered with a slap.

She bristled and he moved closer with a pleading look. “Aunt Jaina, please,” he said, “I know why you feel the way you do and I know I will never truly understand, but we _must_ try, always, until there is no other choice but to fight. I don’t believe we’re at that point yet and I hope we never arrive at it.”

“I wish I had your hope.”

“I don’t believe anyone ever completely gives up on hope. They might bury it but it’s still there, waiting to be unearthed.”

Jaina looked away from him, sighing. It would’ve been cruel to laugh.

Genn grunted, crossing his arms. “I loathe this as much as you, Jaina, but thanks to those _bleeding hearts_ the witch has a reason to pretend she cares about peace.”

‘Bleeding hearts’ left his mouth the same way the word ‘traitors’ or ‘treason’ might, but despite herself it was ‘witch’ that made Jaina frown. Memories of Northrend roused again, softer this time, quiet conversations and flashes of vulnerability—cruelties snarled between clenched teeth. She took a long breath and let it out slowly. “So it’s true then?”

Genn sneered but Anduin answered first. “Yes. The Forsaken have a real solution to their plight and given the critical role of _Alliance heroes_ ,” he looked sternly at Genn as he said that, “in securing it, Sylvanas has seen fit to overlook the events of Stormheim.”

She had heard of the assault on the Halls of Valor, how Odyn was felled and his power absorbed by Helya, and the worry that gripped her at the thought of such a twisted being having all that power. What she did not expect to hear was how Helya went on to dismantle the damned realm of Helheim, her own creation, and throw her newly united forces against the Legion in thanks.

As it turned out, it was justice long since deserved for turning Helya into what she was against her will. An ignoble end to a cruel, self-absorbed tyrant.

Whatever that meant for the Forsaken no one in the Alliance yet knew, but it had nonetheless resulted in Sylvanas extending the offer of peace shortly before the Legion invasion ended.

Jaina fully expected it to be some kind of feint, a lie, a trick to make the Alliance falter and drop their guard—that it got this far without a hint of foul play made her nervous. With the impact of Gorribal on their world, the destruction of Silithus, the innumerable environmental aftershocks, the world was in too delicate a place to risk being caught by surprise.

Aware she’d gotten lost in her thoughts, Jaina flatly said, “I see.”

Anduin pursed his lips. “Jaina, I believe in you, I don’t think you’ll do something to jeopardize this on purpose.”

The imploring tone made her shoulders tense and she looked at him. “But you think I’ll do something rash.”

Anduin smiled awkwardly. “You mean you haven’t already?”

When she didn’t smile back he coughed and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “We’re going to make this work, I promise. I’d appreciate it if you would come back to Stormwind with us, we can catch up and start sorting out this… arrangement.”

She forced her shoulders to relax and canted her head. “Of course.”

* * *

Sylvanas had fully expected this latest talk to be another in a long string of excruciatingly dull and grating talks, weathering petulant barbs and heated words that skirted the edge of outright threat with a chilly indifference she was certain got under Greymane’s skin more than anything she could say did. He knew he could do nothing when his own allies had turned on him, leaving him little choice but to abdicate to his far more reasoned daughter.

Tess Greymane was no less passionate about the rights and reparations owed to her people, but she was not a single-minded zealot who would just as quickly throw them into the fire for revenge while the entire world teetered on the brink.

Watching the old wolf impotently stew as he resigned himself to barking at Anduin’s side was, if nothing else, a drop of entertainment in a sea of tedium.

So she would be lying then if she said the sight of Jaina bursting in unannounced did not thrill her to some degree, a sudden break in the monotony that promised new developments, and what intriguing developments they were.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Nathanos asked as soon as they left the chamber. His mouth was pressed into a grim, crooked line of displeasure and if he held his hands any tighter behind his back he was liable to break something.

“No,” she said simply, pausing some ways down the hall but not so far that she could no longer see the door.

Nathanos’s brow shot to his hairline. “I don’t understand,” he said flatly.

Sylvanas cocked her head. “Should I not trust you, Blightcaller?”

He deflated with a heavy sigh in a manner not dissimilar to a sulking bulldog. “You could have sentenced Velonara to this, she _loves_ chatting to the living,” he grumbled, “and what am I to tell Cedric?”

She smiled far too sweetly. “That you are being given an extremely important task for the Horde’s longevity?”

“Oh, the honour simply _floors_ me. Why are we agreeing to this? No, wait, there was no _we_ here. Why are _you_ agreeing to this?”

“Given Lady Proudmoore’s disposition towards the Horde, the sight of such a staunch opponent to this treaty coming to accept it will be a powerful one, no?”

“And you believe she’ll come around? She’s as bad as Greymane.”

Sylvanas flicked her ears at the comparison, frowning slightly. “No. Proudmoore refused to engage with any of us but she understood which threat was worse even if her hatred kept her from outright cooperation. Greymane had no such perspective.”

He grunted, “I suppose. I still don’t like this and I do _not_ trust her.”

The doors opened, and Anduin and Genn walked briskly from the chamber. Sylvanas offered her most condescending smile when the latter looked at them and the old wolf snorted moodily before following his boy King down the opposite end of the hall and out of sight.

Jaina stepped out only a moment after, brow pinched, shadows under her eyes, and slowly rolled her head and shoulders as if trying to shrug off a great burden. She bluntly ignored the two guards glowering at her.

The thick and heavy battle robes she wore now were a far cry from her old Kirin Tor garb, shedding what little remained of a brighter self for the weathered and bitter reality. Sylvanas tried not to linger on that thought, she did not want to dwell on possibilities that never came to pass, entertained only by her most loathed and insipid impulses.

It had been years since they stood so close and she shoved the memory of Jaina’s hurting, confused eyes from her mind like she were crushing a fly in her palm. It served no purpose but to make her falter and that was intolerable, especially now when the Horde needed her to be impervious and unwavering.

Their eyes met and Sylvanas schooled her expression, tilting her head in courteous acknowledgement.

Jaina scowled but nodded back, and turned on her heel to leave the same way as Anduin and Genn.

Sylvanas watched until Jaina was out of sight, only to realise Nathanos was peering at her with far too much understanding. He opened his mouth and she levelled a withering look at him, to which he smartly swallowed whatever he planned to say and took a sudden burning interest in the detailed coving overhead.

Giving him a moment to completely forget whatever it was he thought he saw, Sylvanas turned and began making her way out of the Violet Citadel.

He fell into step beside her, clearing his throat. “Back to Ogrimmar then?”

She smirked coolly and drawled, “Don’t you want to inform Cedric as soon as possible?”

Nathanos grumbled. “I’d rather have something of substance to tell him, you know how he hates uncertainty.”

“Oh, very well, your suffering is delayed until the details are worked out.”

“Truly, your mercy is _boundless_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying, oh my god do I try.
> 
> If you enjoy this please let me know in the comments, knowing fuels my motivation, and in the meantime I have written other things for Warcraft.


	2. War Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina's first night in Orgrimmar is completely fine and the Dark Rangers have eyes that work just as well as Nathanos's do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments, youse are lovely, oh my god.

A month of rapid back and forth saw the details worked out with almost suspicious ease, including visits home if desired and a clause allowing the Witness to demand voluntary replacement. Not that her pride would permit that, and Nathanos was too full of spite to admit if the situation was too much for _him_ , so it was settled.

She supposed the visits home he so insisted on were to alleviate his disgust at being surrounded by the living. She had no place she considered home anymore, nowhere she felt she belonged or longed to return to that wasn't buried in rubble or the past or rendered unreachable by her own folly.

Strange was the best way to describe her first night in Orgrimmar, restlessly pacing the quarters provided for her within the upper floors of Grommash Hold. Jaina found herself wondering if the counterpart unceremoniously roped into this situation did the same, and picturing Nathanos’s gloomy presence miserably pacing _his_ quarters in Stormwind Keep, closely guarded for the night, would have given her a sliver of satisfaction if it didn’t worry her all the same.

Still, she did this, and Anduin did what he always did and tried to find a balance; _fairness_.

The quarters were spacious enough, an old diplomatic suite and more than she expected, and thoughtfully furnished in a manner similar to what one would find in Dalaran. _That_ she expected even less, to which Sylvanas offered a fanged smile and some pithy remark about making sure her newest ‘hanger-on’ was comfortable if only for her own safety.

Jaina huffed.

The noises and smells of Orgrimmar were unfamiliar, except for the sting of salt on the wind. The vast harbour saw a lot of activity, mostly trade as war ships kept to patrols and escort, as with most everyone’s military now. Safeguarding what they could from old and new threats alike. 

Her ship was moored there now, painfully out of place in its obviously human, obviously _Kul Tiran_ design, a ship she had lifted from the depths of the ocean off Theramore's coastline in preparation for a war that hadn't yet arrived. A war that might never arrive, if the treaty held, and it caused the anchor around her neck to feel almost as heavy as the real thing. Cynicism, perhaps, but the world had taught her to expect little else.

Durotar’s landscape did not retain much warmth at night so Jaina expected the chill in the air, just not as strong as it was. Many across Azeroth felt that chill, a drop in temperature since the Wounding, since the ejecta from Gorribal and the triggering of at least two major volcanos in Un’goro crater and Feralas to spew their molten guts into the air.

Reports spoke of red skies from Tanaris to southern Mulgore. It wasn’t enough for the world to nearly burn down around them when Sargeras swallowed it in that storm of embers his calamitous presence conjured, sparking thousands of fires that every magic user worth their salt worked ferociously to counter, now there was an ash cloud steadily spreading from southern Kalimdor.

Not to mention the earthquakes that rocked the area, soundly dragging half of Gadgetzan into the sea and severely damaging Feathermoon Stronghold as if a second Shattering had arrived. At least the Thousand Needles couldn’t get any more flooded, but their world itself was _bleeding_ like a living thing now, and they had precious few answers for that.

 _What a fucking mess_ , Jaina thought, slowly wringing her hands as she stood before a window overlooking the city gates. They ached in waves, like iron nails slowly pushing lengthways through each bone, not a bad day, but not a good one either.

The scent of the harbour reached her again and Jaina closed her eyes, pushing against memories she would much rather stay confined to their mental lockbox. They came regardless, the memories of a rage so all-encompassing that it made her a stranger in her own body, the burn of the focusing iris in her hand, and the agony of exposure still so raw and fresh, clinging to every part of her as if to make her unravel sinew by sinew just to escape it.

Bile rose in her throat and Jaina choked it down, backing away from the window.

Hands stubbornly shaking, she found it in herself to finally strip down and make use of the slate-tiled en suite, the hot water providing a modicum of relief. She observed herself at the sink after wiping condensation from the mirror and found tired, faintly-glowing eyes staring back at her, eyes she had never quite grown used to even years after the fact.

Sometimes she wished she had more to show for it than her hair and eyes, something people could see and know and stop pretending that was all it did to her. You couldn’t see a scar and not understand the pain it must have caused. But no, for all the pain, ebbing and flowing as it did from bad days to good, she had nothing to show for that. Just foul moods and exhaustion, sequestering herself in dark and quiet rooms until it passed.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t miss the signs standing where she was now, being here meant such a thing might never happen again, not if she remained watchful.

The roar of the waves and a thousand terrified elementals filled her mind, poised to turn the city into a flooded graveyard, to scatter every inhabitant against its buildings and drown every family in their homes—to become someone else’s monster. As if that would have brought any of them back, as if that would have filled the crater in her heart or restored her home.

As if that would have been in any way fair to all the people of Orgrimmar who were just as horrified by what their Warchief had done, to all the people who had no control over it, all the children who cowered in the shadow of her wrath.

She doubted that image of her would fade, not for a long time, if ever.

Sighing, Jaina turned away from her reflection. Slipping into a shift, she padded over to the bed, her new bed, with soft white sheets and a thick navy duvet, and found herself stalling, as if it would close on her like a bear trap the second she put any weight it. She shook the thought aside and climbed under the covers.

Sleep took her before she could even form an opinion about the mattress.

* * *

Despite a constant stream of it, the paperwork of governing did _eventually_ run out when one could use the seven to nine hours of collective inactivity every night to catch up, even if doing so left a not insignificant chunk of time that required filling to stave off the resultant boredom. With the new embassy serving as a better place to keep diplomatic visitors, a few of the guest rooms in the Hold found themselves summarily taken over by off-duty Dark Rangers and Deathguards, and occasionally herself when they caught her in an amiable mood.

“I give him a month before he cracks and runs begging for one of us to replace him,” said Kalira, appraising one of her cards before trading it for another. She maintained a look of practiced indifference.

“Oh, how generous!” Velonara snickered from across the table, then added matter-of-factly, “a fortnight.” She glanced at her hand but did nothing with it.

Kalira arched a brow. “I wonder what he’s actually _doing_ right now; it should be afternoon in Stormwind, no?”

“Perhaps the Little Lion is treating him to a tour,” Sylvanas drawled, staring at her hand. It was utterly useless but she refused to let her irritation with it show on her face, as much as Kalira and Velonara loved chattering during these games their eyes remained keen for such cues. “Won’t that be a _sight_?”

Velonara smirked, leaning back in her chair. “How _did_ Cedric take it?”

“Quite well, considering Nathanos still has all his limbs attached.”

“Tch. I would’ve clipped an ear at least. Now what are we doing, calling, folding, what?”

Sylvanas eyed them both, Velonara a picture of placid innocence staring right at her and Kalira looking at her cards with the slightest hint of a curl at the corner of her mouth. “Fold,” Sylvanas said simply, turning her cards down.

Velonara’s brow pinched and she fixed Kalira with a challenging look, ears flat against her head. “Call,” she said, laying her cards face up.

A vicious little fanged grin parted Kalira’s lips and she laid her winning hand on the table. “Thanks for the coin.”

Velonara leaned back in her chair again with a hissed, “oh, fuck you.”

Kalira cooed, languidly reaching across the table to scoop up the modest pool of silvers between them. “There’s always next time,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Velonara muttered a few curses under her breath. She threw her hands up in a shooing gesture. “No, next time _I’m_ going to pick the game.”

The grin settled into a smirk, and Kalira crooned, “If you think that will help, dear, by all means.”

Sylvanas rose from the table and pulled her hood up, carefully threading her ears into place. Morning was fast approaching and with it the first day with the Horde’s shiny new ‘Witness.’ Much as his consternation amused her, she hoped Nathanos wasn’t suffering overmuch, if this situation worked as intended it would go a long way.

Kalira and Velonara put the cards away and looked at her expectantly.

She clasped her hands behind her back and said, “Kalira, have Lady Proudmoore woken at seven and escorted to the council chambers for the morning brief.”

A cocked ear was all the reaction Kalira had to that, wisely leaving it uncommented that the brief was usually at the half-hour mark and that was more than enough time for Jaina to get ready. Instead, she nodded with a simple, “as you command.”

Velonara kept her voice neutral and light as she asked, “should I pass along any specific instructions to the kitchens?”

* * *

Mercifully, the first day turned out to be a good one, so Jaina rose easily from her unexpectedly comfortable bed at the sound of polite knocking on her door to find a face she recognised on the other side.

Dark Ranger Kalira stood primly, hands clasped behind her back in a mirror to Sylvanas, ears and chin held high. Her hood was down unlike the two Rangers who _had_ been posted at the door, revealing a bob of hair that Jaina assumed must have been a rich copper in life and was now an ashen bronze. A scattering of little black rings adorned the top ridges of her ears.

Memories of fighting through cursed, saronite halls and fleeing a creeping death clamoured at her thoughts and Jaina pushed them away.

“Good morning, Lady Proudmoore, I’m here to collect you for the morning brief,” she said. “You have half an hour to be ready but we can leave early if you wish.”

“Where is it held?”

“Within the Hold.”

Jaina narrowed her eyes and Kalira smiled placidly. “I believe my Lady wished to compensate if you slept poorly given this was your first night in unfamiliar surroundings.”

She blinked, unsure whether to take the explanation as passive aggression or sincerity. She did not need coddling, and the idea of Sylvanas _caring_ after all this time prickled.

Taking a breath, Jaina pushed the thought aside and nodded. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Kalira nodded and stepped back from the door.

Once she was dressed, hair braided and cloak securely fastened, Jaina followed Kalira through the halls of Grommash Hold and down to the ground floor, staff tapping with her stride.

A set of doors behind the Warchief’s throne brought them to a smaller chamber lit by hanging braziers that chased away the morning frost. Large slabs of slate made up the floor and banners representing each nation that called the Horde home lined its walls, firelight playing across the colours of each. A long table took up the centre space, red stained wood capped by a dark steel edge, with small grills embedded down the centre burning at low heat. It looked capable of seating at least twenty people but at that moment its only occupant was the Warchief herself, reading some scroll.

Kalira promptly took a position by the door.

“You’re early,” said Sylvanas without looking up, her tone somewhere between disinterest and ennui, “slept well did you?”

Passive aggression it was then.

Rolling her eyes, Jaina walked down the length of the table until she reached the chair to Sylvanas’s right and sat down, leaning her staff against it. The slightest flick of an ear was all the reaction Sylvanas gave to her silence, continuing to read the scroll as if she wasn’t there. Jaina simply watched her, brow pinched, red eyes tracing each line with a speed most would struggle to match.

When she finished, Sylvanas finally deigned to look at her and held out the scroll. “A report from Silithus,” she said frankly.

After a second’s pause, Jaina took the offered scroll and began reading. It detailed the dire state of the region, which was to say utterly decimated save for _traces_ of silithid hives in the mountains, rendered hollow and black by the fires. The Ruins of Ahn’Qiraj were completely flattened, burying the temple complex under thousands of tons of brick and melted stone.

Perhaps that would act as a final seal to that accursed place if they were lucky, which they seldom were.

She scanned through the geographic carnage until she hit the word ‘azerite’ and chewed the inside of her cheek. There wasn’t much more to say about it, still seeping from the shattered earth, still welling up from the ground _outside_ Silithus, and still far too powerful to know so little about it. At least there was a research station now, established on the most stable patch of ground they could find.

Hunters from the Unseen Path were doing everything they could to keep Silithus civil and secure while researchers from both the Horde and Alliance worked in tandem with the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle. A few arguments resulted in minor scuffles, but those were quickly neutralised before anyone could get seriously hurt.

The last few paragraphs of the report detailed their success in purging Gorribal of its corruption, a cosmic rot threatening the very soul of their world. It only took sacrificing the vast majority of the Orders’ collective arsenal. The weapons that won them the war against the Legion. The legendary, ancient items that _could_ have been used to protect them against future threats.

Jaina slowly curled up the scroll and set it on the table. “Perfect,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Sylvanas sat with her hands clasped over her stomach and legs crossed at the knee. “They bought us time,” she said, “whether it is enough remains to be seen but I do not intend to waste it.”

“And what do you intend?”

“Our survival, of course.”

She opened her mouth to interrogate that only for a red-furred pandaren man to step through the doors, carrying a small tray. He was a burly sort but carried himself without a hint of aggression, and was dressed in a simple white shirt and dark breeches. He didn’t even blink at her presence as he smiled and bowed his head.

“Good morning, Warchief,” he said, in accented thalassian no less.

Sylvanas canted her head. “Zihan.”

Jaina watched him as he approached and set the tray down in front of her. Glazed black earthenware, a single cup, a small covered dish with a spoon, and a carafe giving off the smell of—she stiffened. Her eyes darted to Sylvanas who had found another report to read and look completely disinterested by.

Zihan remained smiling, warm and completely at ease. “Lady Proudmoore,” he said, easily switching to common, “may I?”

A dozen questions ran through her mind but she nodded, watching him as he poured fresh, steaming coffee and added a single spoon of sugar without input, because he didn’t need it. He finished stirring it in and with a polite nod, walked from the room, leaving the tray until she was done with it.

Coffee, but no tea, sugar but no milk, both confidently left out of the equation.

The thought that Sylvanas remembered not simply _that_ she preferred coffee but _how_ she liked her coffee struck Jaina briefly numb. She silently took her cup and nursed the heat of it between her palms, leeching through her gloves until they were left positively toasty, and pointedly ignored the knot of unnameable emotions in her throat.

Sylvanas made no comment but Jaina occasionally noticed the red light of the Banshee’s eyes flicker in her periphery, as if glancing in her direction, but anytime she threatened to directly catch her doing so Sylvanas was reading again.

Sighing under her breath, Jaina slowly began to drink. The first taste relaxed her shoulders, held tense without realising, and she leaned back in her seat to savour each subsequent sip. It was very good coffee, rich and earthy with notes of almond and dark chocolate, a far cry better than what she usually drank, too distracted and too tired to bother with proper preparation and quality.

Zihan quietly returned with two other kitchen staff, a troll man with sky blue skin and an ochre-hued orc woman, setting out cups, and large pots of herbal tea and coffee. The pots were placed on raised plates above the grills to keep warm. Before they left he said, “Warchief, they’re arriving.”

Jaina sat up and poured herself a second cup, ignoring the twisting in her belly. “So,” she began, swallowing any and all questions about the coffee, “I trust they know I’m going to be here.”

“Yes, I informed them as soon as it was finalised.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Jaina clenched her jaw a moment and forcibly relaxed it. “How did they take it?” she asked, turning her head to look at Sylvanas directly. “I can’t imagine they were thrilled.”

Sylvanas cocked her head. “About as thrilled as your people are to see Nathanos at their table, I imagine,” she said, the beginnings of a smirk on her lips. “They’ll live.”

Jaina drank some of her coffee. “Well, what are we discussing today?” she asked, trying to brace herself for what was fast approaching. No doubt there would be a lot of barbed words flung her way, a significant amount of them earned, and disparaging comments in languages they would assume she didn’t understand, but she did have a role to play beyond simply observing. She was also there to be a representative, to speak in the Alliance’s place if need be, as Nathanos was meant to for the Horde, if need be.

Sylvanas tilted her head the other way. “I expect nothing out of the ordinary today, status updates, requests from neighbouring regions, resource allocation, soothing egos,” she said, voice shifting to a cool drawl, “all the very exciting parts of leadership.”

Jaina muttered, “I remember,” and downed half of her coffee as she heard shuffling feet and voices outside the room.

The smirk grew as Sylvanas asked, “any last words, Proudmoore?”

Jaina barely avoided choking on her coffee and glared at Sylvanas over the rim of her cup. “How about ‘fuck you,’ Windrunner?”

A fanged smile split Sylvanas’s mouth just as the doors opened, and a morning with the Horde leadership began in awkward, tense earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pray for Kalira having to stand there doing her job, pretending she didn't watch this happen in real time.
> 
> And if you enjoyed this please let me know in the comments.
> 
> P.S - Even Blizzard can't decide what century Azeroth's technological progress is at so I've decided I don't care either. There are magic space ships and holograms but not everyone has modern plumbing? Sounds fake, couldn't be me.


	3. The Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas broods about the past and present, and those of you who have read [Fragments of Suramar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991251/chapters/18288979) will get to see a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - Suicide ideation in the first section.

It was a long two weeks of adjustment as people got used to the visual of Jaina Proudmoore following their Warchief to and fro, bringing the reality of the treaty into stark focus as it occurred to many that yes, times were indeed changing.

It became even more apparent as diplomats from the Alliance began to frequent Orgrimmar, people hand-picked by Anduin for either their willingness to be pragmatic or their whole-hearted belief in peace as an achievable goal. He had a talent for finding more of the latter.

Many from the ‘Pact’ made a point showing their faces in both Orgrimmar and Stormwind’s embassies, what the Orders of Azeroth were calling themselves now in a formal consolidation of their resources and ideologies. Having successfully put aside differences to pull together and defend Azeroth from the Legion, it was no surprise that those same people were now the loudest and most ardent supporters of the treaty. They had, in effect, become an army of ambassadors and activists, and their example was making it easier to believe a treaty could actually work this time.

For her part, Jaina adjusted quicker than any, surprising most with the fact that she was a polyglot and knew exactly what they were saying right in front of her. But not until they spent most of a conversation doing so and could feel the maximum amount of embarrassment or shame, the spectacle of which usually kept Sylvanas from intervening beforehand. People quickly learned to watch their tongues.

There was still friction, of course, but nothing Sylvanas could not quiet, if someone wanted to challenge her about Proudmoore’s presence they were welcome to, but something about being stared down by a creature like her made most step back into line.

Smoothing the friction between herself and Jaina was another matter entirely, a balancing act between the practical matter of not taking an ice lance to the face and ruining the treaty, and not indulging in childish fantasy. It was _practical_ to make sure Jaina was comfortable and well-fed, that she had her space, and her coffee, and that Zihan was always available should she need anything else.

It was practical to assign Kalira to her as a personal guard, which Jaina bristled at initially but quickly accepted as a matter of pragmatism. The peace held, it was progressing smoother than anyone could have hoped for, but there were still those who bayed for blood and would certainly take the opportunity to strike at her if it presented itself.

By the seventh day Jaina had finally moved at least some of her belongings into her room, mostly a small library’s worth of books as far as Sylvanas could tell, because she made a point of never stepping inside even if Jaina was there. More so if she was, in fact.

If Jaina noticed she made no mention of it, maintaining an air of tired and irritated aloofness. She did not sleep well, nightmares made her rest fitful but it was more than that. Sylvanas made note of the way Jaina would try to hide a wince, the occasional stilted movement or tightening of her jaw—the way she would slowly work at her hands seemingly without thinking, only to stop when she noticed Sylvanas looking at her.

A couple of days Jaina’s threshold for irritation was noticeably lower, earning sharp words and sharper glares that made her eyes brighten to a white hot glow.

Sylvanas briefly contemplated bringing it up and just as quickly dismissed the idea. Jaina would almost certainly not tolerate such a personal discussion, not with her, and even attempting would betray things she had no right to.

Still, she had yet to be lanced, it was progress.

Yet despite that progress, tension slowly crept over Sylvanas with each passing day. The date was looming over her, an event proposed months ago in the early days of the treaty.

It was still dark out as she sat alone in her study, reading the words over and over in a manner one might have called obsessive. Sylvanas told herself it was analytical, a precaution against missed meaning or veiled threats even though the letter held neither, and she knew that.

The Gathering approached with the inexorable weight of a tidal wave.

She flattened her ears at that comparison, half the reason Zandalar reached out to them was the damn wave that came after Gorribal’s impact. No, not Zandalar, its _Princess_ , working behind the back of a father too proud to ask for help when his nation needed it—Sylvanas could respect the girl’s resolve to serve her people even if it risked her familial bonds.

A cold flare of something tangled and ugly unfurled in her chest and she eyed a folded letter at the corner of her desk, no seal to speak of, carefully smoothed out after she nearly crushed it in her hands. The instinct was to burn it, divorce herself from its contents and scrub it from her memory—it was bait. Yet she kept it, yet she picked it up again to read the words she had read a dozen times already.

Alleria’s handwriting had not changed, extending an invitation, a private reunion if this public event went as planned. She wanted a show of good faith before she trusted the _Warchief of the Horde_ in such a personal setting.

Alleria did not use her name.

Sylvanas folded it again, fingers threatening to tear it in half. She set it aside in one piece and slowly sank her hands into her hair, leaning on her desk.

She knew, of course, that her sisters were talking. Vereesa was there for _Argus_ , no doubt telling Alleria whatever version of things made Vereesa the most comfortable.

Ire prickled down her spine like needles of fire and in the same instant fizzled dead at the cold weight in her stomach.

Whatever the two of them hoped to gain from this reunion, it meant nothing if the Gathering did not succeed, she so straightened from her self-pitying sulk and returned her attention to Anduin’s painfully earnest correspondence.

The participants were ready, carefully selected and vetted from a pool of volunteers, brave and foolish hopefuls wishing to make amends and reconnect with lost loved ones.

Two nights previous, a contingent from the Valarjar arrived to secure the area, an open meadow between Thoradin’s Wall and Stormgarde. Conclave priests would attend the participants, while she and the Little Lion were to stand on opposite sides observing and nothing more.

If all went well, it would be a long overdue step towards healing, or something close to it.

She went over the list of Forsaken participants in her head. Most were what anyone expected of her people, ruined bodies held together by dark magic, stitched and mended to approximate something whole but never quite reaching it. A few had taken advantage of their new arrangement with Helya and her liberated val’kyr, whether out of self-consciousness and a desire to be more ‘presentable’ to their living counterparts or a genuine self-interest in their own well-being, Sylvanas did not know and did not ask.

It was a terrible thing to be at odds with oneself on so fundamental a level and she was not about to interrogate the choices her people made in that regard when they were made freely.

A change was occurring, creeping through the Forsaken like the spread of roots, slow, steady and ultimately irrevocable. Many were wary and afraid, but they had seen what her old val’kyr could do, sang in victory at news of her revival years ago in Silverpine.

There was no return to the living, Helya could not give them that, but for those who asked she gave them stability, the body cold and dead all the same but restored to a state of static solidity. Something closer to what she was now, through her own growth in power and ability, and Sylvanas wondered what it would mean for them all in the long term.

Nathanos had questioned if she considered it after Cedric went through the change first, brave man that he was. Seeing the Blightcaller’s own husband volunteer and emerge unscathed in mind and personality broke the tension, inspiring others to embrace the change.

But even if Sylvanas trusted Helya to uphold their agreement, to leave her people free and untethered, she could not bring herself to submit to it. The thought of allowing another being to change her so utterly, again, was so unbearable as to bring an instinctive Wail bubbling up behind clenched teeth.

He did not ask again.

It was enough that her people were no longer condemned to a torment they did not earn, she had secured that much at least. When the final death came, Helya and the val’kyr would shepherd them beyond that accursed pit to whatever should have greeted them the first time if not for Arthas’s cruelties.

Her jaw clenched at the barest thought of him. She hoped that pit held him in misery until the end of time itself.

Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to Icecrown Citadel, to the howling of an unnatural blizzard about its peak and the unspeakable pain of Ashbringer smoking and crackling in her hands as she snatched it off the ground and swung, _wailing_ with all the rage in her heart. The ear-splitting shriek of souls escaping Frostmourne as it shattered, and the Light-inflicted agony cracking through her fingers, hands and arms as she held on just long enough to swing again and take Arthas’s wretched head from his shoulders.

Yet even that victory was bitter, ruined the moment that accursed paladin crowned a new king and _that voice_ came back as if nothing had happened, a cruel joke.

And then _she_ was cruel, Jaina’s blue eyes filling with pain and confusion as she spoke words she didn’t mean—she didn’t want Jaina to see what happened next. She didn’t want _anyone_ to see, she wanted to be forgotten, _released_ , and even that was denied her.

It wasn’t now.

It wasn’t now, not with Helya, and yet she still didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. She was Warchief now, there was a peace to ensure, a world to fix, a future to safeguard, or all of it would be for nothing.

One day, death would come for her again and she would finally be free to leave as she so desired, but not today.

Sylvanas exhaled a long, habitual breath, rose from her desk, and walked out to face her obligations.

* * *

Jaina prided herself on perseverance, she had suffered worse than harsh looks and bladed words, and truth be told her time in Orgrimmar hadn’t been as bad as she expected it to be. Zihan was a calm and attentive presence and she found Dark Ranger Kalira to be both an engaging card player and a surprisingly earnest guide when time allowed. The city had changed much since she last visited in a friendly capacity, and the last time—well, she didn’t want to dwell on it.

Kalira had changed little since the Northrend campaign, it seemed, and both of them silently agreed not to bring up Loralen, keeping their conversation topics firmly rooted in the present.

Sylvanas tolerated her constant presence as one might tolerate a haunting they couldn’t be rid of, through appeasement and boundary setting, and almost certainly relieved when sleep removed her from the waking world for a handful of hours at a time. That worried Jaina at first, it still worried her, but through Kalira and observation she learned that when everyone else was asleep there wasn’t a whole lot the Warchief could actually accomplish by way of _nefarious schemes,_ except occasionally win silver from her underlings. Not that she kept it for long. Kalira suspected Sylvanas lost on purpose but could never prove it.

It was a dark and chilly morning as Jaina walked out of the Hold, her breath billowing white in the air, the sun still hidden from sight and Kalira at her flank. A thin layer of frost clung to everything and Jaina looked skyward, where cloud cover hide the stars from view, no doubt ready to drop an unfortunate amount of snow while they were gone.

“You’re sure about this?” asked a deep, rough voice in orcish.

Varok Saurfang was a semi-familiar sight now, his hulking frame in the torchlight rendering Sylvanas _almost_ waifish in comparison even if she was anything but.

Dark Ranger’s Velonara and Lyana stood by their mistress.

“If I wasn’t, do you think I would be attending?” Sylvanas asked coolly, standing with her hands behind her back as usual. Her orcish was far more formal, less throaty and not as deep in the chest.

Saurfang opened his mouth but paused when he noticed Jaina approach, turning to face her. “Lady Proudmoore,” he grunted, “I suppose you’re accompanying our Warchief to this too?”

“As Witness, yes,” she responded, her orcish closer to his in delivery, “is that a problem, Overlord?”

He stared at her straight on and bluntly said, “Only if this is a trap.”

Jaina’s neck prickled but all she answered him with was a squared jaw and flat stare.

Sylvanas’s ears tilted back. “Saurfang,” she said in warning.

He heaved a heavy breath and trudged back towards the Hold. “Return to us, Warchief,” he called over his shoulder, “it would be a shame for all this to come crashing down _now_.”

Jaina sighed quietly and turned to find Sylvanas looking at her with an expression that almost approached an apology and died half-way. “Are you ready?” Jaina asked. When a nod was all she got she pursed her lips and got on with weaving the portal to Arathi, unsure what to expect on the other side.

Some small forgotten corner of her mind hoped it went well—she braced herself for the alternative.

A second skin of frost bloomed unbidden across her hands as her magic flared and released the smell of salt and samphire into the air around them. She honed in on the anchor planted by the Tirisgarde and pulled open a passage from one side of the planet to the other. Daylight shone through, glaring off a landscape blanketed in snow.

A twinge of pain ran up her left arm and Jaina flexed her jaw. “After you,” she said gruffly.

Sylvanas peered at her as if she wanted to say something but stepped through the portal instead, as did the Rangers, and Jaina followed.

Arathi greeted them with a harsh, dry chill and clear sky, Thoradin’s Wall looming behind them and casting a stark shadow most tried to avoid in favour of the warming sun. Snow was thick everywhere, on the Wall, weighing down copses of hinterland pines and burying the fields, but the road from the Wall to Stormgarde was partially cleared and so was the gently sloping meadow upon which the Gathering would take place.

Bonfires burned to keep the cold at bay and rows of weather-proof tents lined the low lying areas to keep out of the wind. In the meeting field stood a sturdy, open pavilion, boulders weighing down the tarp and heavy timber holding it steadfast should harsh weather blow in.

Vrykul and non-vrykul Valarjar alike trudged about, keeping a close eye on everyone present. One of the latter broke off from addressing a small squad of them to approach, dressed in expertly crafted plate armour of slate grey and burnished gold, with white fur trim and small scarlet accents.

The dark purple and silver tabard of the Pact was a new sight but a visceral one, its symbol that of different hands holding up a depiction of Azeroth, its colour the logical blending of Horde and Alliance.

Jaina stiffened as she recognised the figure.

The Battlelord was a kaldorei woman of impressive stature even amongst her own kind. One could have described her countenance as regal and panther-like if not for the myriad of scars that carved her features into a tapestry of warfare. Even marked as she was, there was a touch of softness to her, a kindness that shined through as gentle as moonlight.

The last time they met Jaina was abandoning the Kirin Tor, but no hint of judgement or anger crossed the Battlelord’s face. Then again, it would’ve been difficult to tell even without the blindfold she wore.

“Lady Proudmoore, Warchief.” Keleria’s voice was smooth and deep as she greeted them in Orcish, bowing lightly with her helmet tucked under her arm. Her ragged ears swivelled forward in alertness. “The High King and the Blightcaller arrived before you, as did the participants. My people have done everything they can to ensure the safety of everyone here but the rest will be up to them.”

Keleria motioned over to their left and Jaina turned her head to see a small gathering of Forsaken, a dozen or so strong, nervously chattering amongst themselves.

She blinked upon realising two of them looked noticeably different. They stood taller, spines unbent without pain or damage to push them down, and they were not as gaunt, lacking the torn skin or protruding bone of their fellows. Their skin did not carry the warmth of life, it was ashen with a vague sheen to it that reminded Jaina of the Battlelord’s armour, and their eyes held a seafoam coloured light rather than the usual bile yellow of many Forsaken.

They appeared to be offering words of reassurance to the others.

She looked at Sylvanas and asked, “Is _that_ what Helya can do for your people?”

Sylvanas nodded, her expression carefully neutral. “Only if they choose it,” she said firmly.

Jaina looked at the changed Forsaken again and felt a flutter of something light in her chest. “I see.”

The Battlelord cleared her throat. “Everyone is eager to see this done. Are you ready to begin?”

Sylvanas canted her head.

Keleria turned, walking to the very edge of the field. She pulled a small, straight whistle from a pouch on her belt and blew a long tone that started low, shifted high, and finished low again. Everything stilled, the low burble of conversation fell silent.

From across the way, a lanky figure standing with what could only be Anduin and Nathanos, whistled back the same. The Battlelord turned her head, seeming to look over her shoulder at them.

Jaina moved at the same time Sylvanas did, and the Dark Rangers moved away to ready the Forsaken participants.

The Battlelord led them through a path cut through the deep snow, and as Anduin and Nathanos drew closer Jaina could make out the figure next to them, a young troll man with a short shock of black hair and skin a shade of deep, frigid blue that reminded Jaina of the North Sea. He wore slate toned armour similar to the Battlelord but distinct in its marked simplicity of colour, a second-in-command perhaps, and the Pact tabard. A single blade sat on his back, long and slender in direct contrast to the two large and heavy scythes on Keleria’s back that by all logic should have weighed her down, but didn’t.

On each side the participants gathered, humans ahead, Forsaken behind, and Jaina held her breath as her boots hit the pavilion floor. The warmth of the sun dropped away behind the tarp.

“You look well, Aunt Jaina,” Anduin beamed, hands clasped in front of him. He was in good spirits but she could see the tug of nervousness at the corner of his mouth.

She offered a half-smile. “As do you, I trust your Witness has been keeping as close an eye as I have?” she asked, switching her attention to Nathanos.

For his part, Nathanos looked only slightly less constipated than he usually did, though he did not comment.

Sylvanas smirked at him, ears swivelling forward. “Cat got your tongue, Blightcaller?”

“Oh, you would,” he hissed, heaving a heavy, put-upon sigh. “I am _fine_ , I’ll have you know. I have been carrying out my duties to the letter.” His moustache twitched with a brief, begrudging curl of his mouth. “It has not been a wholly excruciating affair. The King’s love of dogs is a saving grace.”

Anduin looked far too pleased with himself for Nathanos to be making a dig about Genn, which pleasantly surprised Jaina.

She wasn’t sure how to take the idea that even Anduin and Nathanos, diametrically opposed as they were, could find even a shred of common ground. And yet.

Anduin looked at Sylvanas and politely bowed his head. “Warchief, it’s good to see you again, this will be a momentous day for both our people.”

Sylvanas returned the gesture, ears settling back into a neutral look. “For the right reasons, one hopes.”

“They deserve the chance to try.”

“I would not have agreed if I did not believe the same.”

“But you doubt.”

Sylvanas bared her fangs in a mirthless smile. “My people have been hurt before.”

Placing his hand over his heart, Anduin’s imploring look could have melted a glacier. “I swear to you, I have done everything in my power to avoid that. Nathanos even helped prepare those who will take part. Seeing him helped put things in perspective. I believe their intentions are pure and that your people will not be harmed.”

Sylvanas appeared unmoved, her expression evening out again as she canted her head. “Shall we begin?”

Anduin nodded.

As one, they all turned their backs and returned to their respective sides, with the Battlelord and her second remaining at the pavilion, each watching carefully.

The participants began their slow walk to the middle, accompanied by a handful of Conclave priests who led the way and provided some last minute reassurances, preparation for what was sure to be a very difficult meeting.

Jaina could not help the tension of her shoulders, the clenching of her stomach, watching as the two groups grew closer and closer to the middle. Her mind rushed with possibilities, a weapon that wasn’t found, magic undetected—a bomb. That thought caused an involuntary flare of her magic, just enough to coat her staff in frost where she held it.

As the two groups finally met, she closed her eyes, reminded herself to breathe, and waited for the screams to begin.

A moment passed, two, three, four—

Beside her, Sylvanas murmured, “look.”

It wasn’t the word so much as the gentleness with which it was said that made her listen and open her eyes.

Small, tentative touches slowly turned to hand-holding, and quickly became hugging, relieved embraces and shaking shoulders, faces pressed in the crook of necks to hide the tears. A couple fell to their knees hugging, hands in hair, cradling each other like spun glass. A mother and her forsaken sons became animated, the sons excitedly breaking into conversation long overdue, each reaching out a hand of comfort to their mother as she broke down in overwhelmed, happy tears and pulled them all to her. Others found spots to sit under the pavilion and slowly began to navigate the distance of time and death.

But there was no screaming, no horror.

Her thoughts slid back to Theramore, many years before the bomb, to her father and what he would say about this with all his hate and anger. What _she_ would say to him now, what she _could_ have said or done differently then to avoid—she stopped her thoughts there, throat thickening. She blinked and her eyes prickled.

Jaina swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She could feel Sylvanas standing close to her, proximity bringing with it the smell of tulips interlaced with the iron-ozone of saronite, but the banshee didn’t seem to expect conversation and for that she was grateful, waiting in agonising silence until the tangle of emotion loosened enough for her to squash it down.

Her voice was still a little too thick for her liking when she finally said, “they seem to be getting along.”

Sylvanas’s voice was distant. “It would seem so.”

Jaina looked at her only to find Sylvanas staring not at the participants, not exactly, but into the middle-distance, like she were somewhere else entirely. Her ears were low and slack and her brow pinched. There was a strange, forlorn quality to her eyes that flung Jaina’s mind back to Northrend.

The question burned on her tongue, begging to be released, so she asked it. “Have you ever thought about doing this for yourself, with Vereesa?”

Sylvanas blinked out of her reverie as if stabbed, ears lifting sharply. She scowled and her eyes hardened into something far more familiar. “You are friends with Vereesa, are you not?” The question was delivered like an accusation.

Jaina lifted her chin, frowning. “What of it?”

Sylvanas stared at her for a good long moment, scrutinising, like she was waiting for her to say something more, but when all Jaina gave her was a defensive glare Sylvanas’s expression softened by a fraction. She looked away, eyes searching the middle-distance again, ears flicking briefly to and fro as if her thoughts were at war. They finally settled into a harsh slant behind her.

Jaina cocked her head but refrained from commenting, waiting until Sylvanas decided to answer her. If she did.

Sylvanas frowned and adjusted the clasp of her arms behind her back. When she spoke it was through her teeth, as if the words burned her to say them. “There was an attempt. At what, I do not know and do not care. Whatever it was Vereesa wanted of me she could not follow through with the reality of it. So no, I do not consider this a possibility for me.” She paused, eyes narrowing, before adding icily, “the living are so often careless and self-absorbed in their grief, they do not see you.”

She held herself too stiffly, her jaw flexing with the grinding of teeth—the encounter, whatever shape it took, had certainly left a wound, that much Jaina could tell. That Vereesa never told her about it stung her, but perhaps it was too painful.

Sighing, Jaina gently said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Sylvanas blinked, ears lifting a moment, but she quickly smoothed her features into a neutral mask and said nothing more in response, keeping her stare firmly on the participants.

Jaina turned her attention forward as well, worrying a piece of her skirts between her fingers as silence fell around them. A cool breeze rustled their cloaks and the quiet became tense enough to force words from her mouth just to escape it. “I want to believe that if I saw my brother again I would welcome him back,” she said, carefully, “that I would love him just as much. He may be different but so is anyone after a trial like that. I couldn’t hold it against him.”

Sylvanas was silent for a moment, before quietly asking, “what was his name?”

“Derek. He was the eldest, always at father’s side on the waves. Mercilessly teased Tandred and I any chance he got but he always took the blame for our mischief, kept us from getting into any real trouble.”

“He died at sea?”

“Yes. The Second War, dragon riders—father saw it happen.”

“Ah.”

Her eyes prickled again and Jaina swallowed, forcing it back, forcing down the words that threatened to spill out of her like a gutted fish. She expected Sylvanas to react with scorn, not this subdued understanding—Light take her, daring to cast doubt on everything Jaina spent years convincing herself of.

Even when she knew it was a lie.

The silence was gentler as it closed around them again, giving her space to breathe and slowly get her heart under control.

As the participants showed no sign of running out of things to say to one another everyone settled in, finding their own spaces to sit and observe, and allowing the silence to slowly transform into hushed conversation.

More often than not Jaina found herself watching Sylvanas, who continued to stand at the very edge of the field like a statue, wine-red cloak slowly billowing in the breeze. She could not relax while her people remained in this vulnerable position, worried not just for their physical safety but their hearts too. It was as she said to Anduin; the world had not been kind to the Forsaken. She had every reason to worry.

As the hours passed, sweet hot tea was brought around to stave off the cold.

Smatterings of conversation reached Jaina from the Valarjar and Conclave, discussing worldly events, the latest developments in the treaty, the progress in Silithus, their worries and their goals, but always with a sense of hope, an unshakable, determined and aggressive sort of hope that one clenched between their teeth and refused to let go of out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

The Pact was not a collection of bleeding hearts and naïve fools. They were the children of Azeroth, beaten and bloody, but rising, always rising, getting back on their feet time after time after time.

And they had had enough of war, enough of losing loved ones, enough of watching people break each other out of pettiness and hatred.

She looked again at the humans and forsaken talking peacefully to each other, and she could not help but smile, just a little, just to herself, and enjoyed her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm saying is that I would've gone absolutely feral if ICC had ended with Sylvanas being the one to strike Arthas down instead of some boring paladin rando who did not have some extremely personal trauma to work through.
> 
> Anyway, if you enjoy this please let me know in the comments, knowing fuels my motivation.
> 
> If you'd like to catch me chattering about the fic through memes and warcraft shitposting, I'm [thronebreaker-dorne](https://thronebreaker-dorne.tumblr.com/) on tumblr o/


	4. Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old God tentacles wiggle in the distance, Jaina can't sleep, and Sylvanas deals with some troubling correspondence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely thought this fic wouldn't be ready to start posting by february but the brain worms went "hold my beer."

There was no brief the following morning, but they sat together in the council chamber regardless, going over reports, requests, and amendments. Jaina almost wished there was more friction, a bristling ebb and flow between the two of them as there had been over the last fortnight, that would be easier, that would allow her to compartmentalise, but yesterday’s conversation had broken something. Some silent agreement they had held to for years to pretend everything was as it appeared to be.

It was all too easy to fall into amiable silence and familiar flow. They had done this before, after all, going over plans for the assault on Ulduar, commiserating in their shared frustration for the pissing matches held at the Argent Tournament, and finally the push into Icecrown Citadel, and all the trials that entailed.

The quiet moments between lingered the most and Jaina found herself dwelling on the conversation she and Sylvanas shared, the _gentleness_ in the Banshee’s voice that she hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime.

It didn’t help her wandering thoughts any that Sylvanas seemed to have grown aware that something was wrong with her but had yet to comment _or_ needle her about it. If anything, it only seemed to make Sylvanas wary, whether out of self-preservation or concern…

Jaina shook _that_ thought away before it could get far, much too full of uncertainty and ragged edges to bear following it.

Word from the Alliance was positive. The participants were actually reluctant to part ways by the end of the day and it was agreed that another Gathering needed planning. With the treaty in place, a few of those reunited made personal plans to meet in Dalaran in their own time, unwilling to wait for a formal event.

It was the start of something new, proof that some light yet remained in the world.

The electric knot of discomfort between her shoulder blades pulsed in protest as she moved on to a small stack of reports from Silithus, and Jaina resisted the urge to openly roll her shoulders and head. It wouldn’t do much anyway.

Most of the reports focused on the transport of small azerite shipments to secure locations where more in-depth study could be performed. It was clear to everyone that the substance _could_ be weaponised, it amplified magic to a frightful degree and effected creatures in strange and volatile ways, especially elementals, but under the treaty the only options for research were peaceful application.

Naturally, military commanders on both sides chafed at that but were soundly reminded that this 'powerful new resource' was _the_ _blood of Azeroth_ _itself_ , the very essence of their dying planet. They could not afford to _squander_ it on conflict when Azeroth was the only home they had. If it died, they would all perish together.

“You would think they’d understand,” Jaina muttered, rubbing her face. “Tactically speaking, I mean. Trying to settle a grudge while the ship is sinking gets you both killed.”

“True, but if you believe your death is imminent then the sinking ship is inconsequential,” said Sylvanas, “a little last minute revenge is the only solace left to you.”

Jaina exhaled a long, heavy breath and propped her chin in her hands, staring at the spread of reports. “We can’t afford that,” she said, frowning. “Everyone pulls together or we all drown, that’s all I’m seeing here.”

Sylvanas regarded her a moment, right ear twitching. “I don’t disagree,” she said, measured, “are you suggesting we make examples of those who refuse to play nice?”

Jaina sent her a flat look. “If it were that straightforward _you_ would have done it already.”

A fanged smile parted Sylvanas’s lips. “How well you know me, Proudmoore,” she said darkly, and dropped the smile before she continued in a firm voice, “you have the right of it, at the moment the loudest voices in the Horde are content to growl and have yet to take a bite. But I am under no illusion that there will not be _instigators_ somewhere down the line.”

“Anduin is doing what he can on his end of things, but…”

“What are they calling themselves again?”

Jaina sighed, rubbing her face again and scowling into her palms for the seconds her expression was hidden. “The Blood of Wrynn.”

A name in foolish, skewed remembrance of a King who died to ‘Horde treachery’ and a warning to his soft, weak-willed son if the boy did not resume hostilities. Hateful fools the lot, but even fools could be dangerous and it only invited catastrophe to underestimate them.

At least the Uncrowned were doing what they could to track and counter the group’s activities. Ringleaders had yet to be uncovered and it would take time to build a useful dossier—Jaina reminded herself to touch base with Valeera at some point.

A slender troll man in dark leathers stepped through the door and handed a thick envelope to Kalira before about-facing, leaving her to walk down the length of the table and hand it to Sylvanas after a moment’s inspection.

Jaina leaned over to read as Sylvanas opened it, to which the elf arched a long brow but said nothing in protest to her space being invaded. That in itself almost made Jaina settle back into her chair but she remained where she was, she was curious after all.

It was a document containing multiple reports, collated to show a pattern of incidents from all over the map.

Individuals found standing in the surf at odd hours of the night in port towns and villages, blank-faced and unmoving only to break down in tears when disturbed.

Strange missing persons cases where the bodies turned up later covered in seaweed and self-inflicted wounds, words carved into the skin that hurt the eyes to read and left those who tried with night terrors.

Shadowy men and women talking in riddles in run-down bars and back alleys, plying offers of escape to folk starving for it. Those desperate enough to listen disappeared without a trace.

Every incident was on the coast, or a stone’s throw from the sea, whether it was Pandaria, Kalimdor, or the Eastern Kingdoms, nowhere appeared untouched by it.

Sylvanas eyed her. “What are you thinking?”

Jaina slowly eased back into her seat, frowning deeply as her mind churned with possibilities and found only one likely answer. “It sounds like an Old God at work,” she said, “I would say Twilight’s Hammer but we haven’t seen much of them lately. Not to say I don’t think they’re involved in _some_ way.”

“It could be a new organisation risen from their corpse. Most of the Twilight’s Hammer forces were concentrated in Silithus.”

“True, that damn sword may have done us a favour.”

Sighing deeply, Jaina rubbed at her eyes, her brow, and then her face, as if she could discourage the onset of a headache she knew to be building regardless of her wishes. When she let her hands drop she noticed Sylvanas staring at her with an inscrutable look. “What?”

Sylvanas’s left ear flicked to the side. “Would you like more coffee?”

It felt very much as if Sylvanas wanted to ask something else and aborted, and Jaina’s mind flurried with a dozen questions of her own. Instead, she cleared her throat and looked away. “No. I’m fine,” she said, pointedly picking up a different stack of reports. “These aren’t going to read themselves.”

Sylvanas murmured, “as you wish.”

The rest of the day passed with little event, a boring, straight-forward day of paper work, a handful of cursory meetings, and not getting on each other’s nerves—Jaina couldn’t bring herself to interrogate it and just accepted it as a mercy. One that did _not_ follow her to bed, it seemed, as she found herself shifting restlessly, her thoughts fixating on the strange incidents, trying to piece everything together.

Not to mention she couldn’t find a position which made the ache between her shoulders lessen, sitting high on her spine like someone buried a morning star in it.

She lay on her front a while, staring blankly at the far wall, until her eyes slid to the clock above her chest of drawers and informed her it was two in the morning.

Jaina hissed a soft, “fuck this,” and slipped out of bed. She threw a long, navy dressing gown over her shift and stepped out of her room to find Kalira and Velonara sitting at a small table in the hall outside, the latter all but sprawled in her chair as she read some tawdry romance novel judging by the cover, and the former practicing card tricks. Both had their hoods down, revealing the long plait Velonara wore her raven hair in.

They both looked up, ears perking, but Kalira asked;

“Do you need something Lady Proudmoore?”

Jaina rubbed at her eyes. “A distraction,” she admitted, sighing. “I can’t seem to quiet my thoughts.”

Kalira grinned and nudged the only remaining chair out with her foot. “Want to play a game?” she offered, springing the cards from one hand to the other in a rapid snap of paper. “It’s nice being beaten for once.”

“At least _someone_ can,” Velonara muttered from behind her book.

Jaina settled at the table and smiled far too sweetly at Velonara. “Surely you’re not afraid of playing against someone half-asleep?”

Velonara groaned and put her book aside. “I hate both of you.”

Kalira laughed.

* * *

Thankfully, Jaina managed to get enough sleep to be functional by morning, the ache dispersing into her arms and diminishing to something she could _almost_ forget was there.

A meeting with the High King and the Pact leadership saw them in Suramar, stepping through the portal from early morning in Orgrimmar to midnight in the Broken Isles.

Jaina had only seen Suramar once before, during the Witness negotiations, and found herself still marvelling at the beauty of it.

In the time since the Legion’s final invasion it had become something akin to a second Dalaran. The development was partially due to aid from the Kirin Tor, hovering close enough that one city could see the other just by looking out a window, but it was much more to do with the large presence of the Pact within Suramar. Most of their members were involved in the fight to liberate it, working from the inside and out long before the elven armies deigned to turn up.

Much of the housing was left damaged or empty in the aftermath, and with the First Arcanist’s blessing members of the Pact moved in to repair and make their homes in Suramar, which brought in a flow of gold, people, and goods as a high number of Pact members had trades to ply outside their considerable talents for warfare, and the connections to back them up.

The displaced druids of Val’sharah eagerly made themselves at home as well, reluctant to return to their verdant forest after setting up a vast swathe of farms along Suramar’s perimeter. The populace was free from subsisting solely on liquid magic and required more substantive fare, something they might have struggled to amass enough of without the druids’ help, not to mention the considerable knowledge and experience of the Tillers from Pandaria, a favour called in by the Grandmaster.

As a result, with the diverse range of people from the Pact eagerly introducing the shal’dorei to cuisine from all corners of Azeroth, the culinary landscape of the city could best be described as eclectic, filling the streets with all manner of sweet and savoury aromas, which had the knock-on effect of drawing those with adventurous tastes and the gold to indulge them to the city.

All in all, the Pact making Suramar it’s unofficial base of operations meant it did not need to rush into alliances with anyone, and the First Arcanist was more than grateful to keep her city’s independence as it found its footing in the new world. That didn’t mean there were _no_ trade agreements and diplomatic ties being built, but it did mean that there was little pressure to swear fealty, and much like Dalaran now it made Suramar valuable neutral ground.

The meeting itself was relatively painless, briefly going over the success of the Gathering and formally stating a date for the next one, while the rest of their time was taken up the twelve assembled leaders from the Pact going over their plans and movements to keep the High King and the Warchief informed of their activities. Silithus continued to be a point of tension, but no more fights had broken out.

Genn brooded miserably and slumped in his seat, glowering across the table at Sylvanas, but to Jaina's relief he managed to keep his mouth shut for the duration of the talk, perhaps hoping that looks alone would cause the Banshee to combust.

For her part, Sylvanas acted as if he wasn't even present, which only seemed to intensify his brooding.

“Thank you, everyone, this meeting is now adjourned,” said Thalyssra in her smooth tones, rising from her chair to leave.

Everyone else rose as well, separating to talk privately or leave right away. While Anduin seemed to give Genn a polite talking to, Nathanos stepped away from them to approach Sylvanas.

“I’d like to talk privately,” he said stiffly, and just as stiffly bowed his head in a polite gesture, “if you don’t mind, Lady Proudmoore. Personal business.”

“Of course,” Jaina said slowly, thrown by his effort. “I’ll get some fresh air.”

Sylvanas canted her head and Jaina walked from the meeting chamber, navigating the lavishly carved hallways until she stepped out into the chilly night air.

The embassy’s grand terrace overlooked the rest of the city below and Jaina leaned on the balustrade, letting her eyes drift. Every shade of purple imaginable lived in Suramar, shining through a blanket of snow that twinkled in the moonlight. Patrolling constructs regularly cleared the streets and she noticed shal’dorei citizens walking around in a vast array of cold weather clothing, embracing new styles from other cultures with the eagerness of the long deprived.

Movement directly below her drew Jaina’s eye, where Thalyssra was walking down the stairs leading away from the terrace, arm-in-arm with none other than the Battlelord. The two had an easy, playful air around them, and seemed to discuss something with barely an actual word said between them, communicating in little more than meaningful expressions and gestures.

It was hardly the appropriate closeness expected of a bodyguard and all but confirmed talk Jaina had heard about the pair. To find love in a time of strife was a beautiful thing—they were lucky it didn’t need to end in tragedy.

Jaina closed her eyes, willing her mind away from following _that_ particular thought; she didn’t fancy pitying herself quite that much today.

“Jaina?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Vereesa’s voice only a few steps away and spun around, almost knocking the elf over. “Tides! _Fuck_ , Vereesa, you scared me half to death,” she hissed, forcing a long breath.

Vereesa looked away sheepishly, her ears flat. “Sorry.”

Jaina wiped a hand down her face and sighed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone near me, I… what are you doing here? You’re late if you were meant to be at the meeting.”

Vereesa’s ears remained flat and her lips pressed into a thin line. “I wasn’t, but it’s good that I caught you alone, actually.”

The tightness in her voice made Jaina frown and ask, “Hoping to avoid Sylvanas were you?”

Vereesa cringed and produced a letter from her belt. “This is for her,” she said, finally looking Jaina in the eye. “From us.”

That made Jaina arch a brow but she carefully took the offered letter. “Alleria is reaching out?”

Rubbing her arm, Vereesa looked out at the city. “Only if the Gathering went well, and it did, so we’re doing this, I suppose. I don’t know what to expect but Alleria wants to try,” she sighed, brow furrowing. “And she wants answers.”

“Will you be meeting in Dalaran then?”

“No.”

The lack of follow-up stung and Jaina toyed with the letter, mulling over the possibilities it held and what Sylvanas told her yesterday. “Vereesa,” she started, using a careful tone that made the elf look at her again, “why didn’t you tell me you reached out to her, before?”

The colour drained from Vereesa’s face and she immediately looked away again. “I didn’t want to,” she said quickly.

A cold feeling lodged in Jaina’s chest. “I’m sorry. I know it must be a painful memory, I only wish I could have been there for you.”

She wished a great many things about that chapter of their lives, wondering time after time if Vereesa blamed her as much as Garrosh for Rhonin’s death. She could have tried harder to save him, he never stood a chance of containing the bomb alone, they both knew that, but he was too stubborn, too good. He had to try.

It should have been her.

Vereesa’s brows drew together. “No, I-I’m sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You’ve been a good friend to me and the boys, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just couldn’t bring myself to speak of it is all.”

Pushing thoughts of violet ashes from her mind, Jaina offered her hand and was relieved when Vereesa took it with a friendly squeeze. “How _are_ they doing?”

Warmth returned to Vereesa’s face. “Growing like weeds, bickering all the time until Arator gets involved and then they’re suddenly the best of allies.” She smiled sourly, “doesn’t that sound familiar?”

Jaina huffed a bitter laugh. “All too familiar, yes.”

The threat of chatter and footsteps drifted out of the embassy’s open doors and Vereesa stiffened, pulling away. It was clear as day to Jaina that she hadn’t _wanted_ to deliver that letter in person, handing it to Jaina was a happy coincidence. “I’ll tell the boys you said hello,” she said by way of goodbye, turning to leave quickly.

She only just avoided being spotted as Sylvanas emerged with Anya and Kalira in tow.

Anduin, Genn, and Nathanos emerged shortly after, splitting off to leave for the portal nexus down by the harbour. A handful of Pact leaders filtered out in their wake.

Sylvanas approached her with a curious look as she held out the letter.

“And what is this?”

“A letter.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at the bland response and opened it, quickly scanning its contents. A ripple of some indefinable emotion passed over her face, quickly hidden save for the way her ears pinned back and the uncomfortable tension that wormed into her posture.

Jaina leaned back on the balustrade, tucking her staff against her body. “Vereesa gave it to me just now,” she said, watching Sylvanas’s blood red eyes narrow at the name, “she all but ran when she heard you coming.”

Sylvanas’s lips parted in a snarl. “I did nothing to her,” she said coldly.

“I didn’t say you did anything.”

“But you presume I did something to warrant it.”

The thought crossed her mind, but for all the terrifying mythology and hateful propaganda surrounding Sylvanas, the idea she would intentionally hurt her last remaining family seemed out of place in what Jaina knew of her.

Jaina sighed and looked away. “I really don’t. But there’s clearly something lingering between you two and this is an opportunity to clear the air.”

Sylvanas shook her head. “Clear the air,” she sneered. “They both desire something they cannot have. This is not the Gathering, those people were carefully selected and screened to ensure success.” She lifted the letter, scowling. “ _This_ is—this is folly. Pure, selfish, and bull-headed.”

She cursed in thalassian and looked away, resting her free hand on the balustrade. “Vereesa should know better than this,” she muttered.

Jaina took note of the shallow lines Sylvanas dug into the stonework before carefully asking, “And you think Alleria will be the same way?”

Sylvanas’s response was cold. “They are blood.”

A sharp pang went through her at those words and Jaina frowned. “And you aren’t?” she asked, sincerely wondering if Sylvanas thought herself so completely removed from her family.

Sylvanas’s lack of response prompted Jaina to slowly turn and look at her straight on. “It’s a chance to try again and make it _work_ this time—they’re reaching out. Are you really not going to try, not even for your own sake?”

Sylvanas bristled at that and stepped away from the railing. “We have work to do,” she said flatly, turning to leave.

Jaina swallowed a protest and let it go, following her.

* * *

Jaina did not press her any further about it when they returned to Orgrimmar, though tension wrapped around them heavy enough to smother a mammoth for the remainder of the day. But when the hour grew late, the city fell into silence, and even Jaina finally retired to bed, Sylvanas could not keep the letter from her thoughts.

She sat alone in her study and read it, over and over, a myriad of thoughts running through her mind at its contents.

Alleria still did not use her name and spoke in terms that were coloured by distrust. They had no yet had the chance to see one another in decades and Alleria spoke to her as if they were lifelong enemies only just emerging from wartime.

And yet, Alleria still wanted to do this.

_‘I wish to see what has become of our home, and reclaim the spire from the monsters that infest it.’_

Sylvanas has not been _home_ in many years, she rarely visited Silvermoon and any time she did was fraught with discomfort and memories of better times clawing wildly at her thoughts like rabid animals. Better times that inevitably led to the cold, bloody end.

She shuddered despite herself, reflexively driving the heel of her hand into the wretched scar just below her sternum.

Alleria had no idea what she was asking.

 _Vereesa_ had some idea, and she was still going along with it.

Neither of them understood. They never would.

There was a pathetic, fluttering sensation in her stomach, blooming into an ache of longing deep in her chest for something she could not have and never would. There was no closure to be gained from this, no reconciliation waiting for her. If Alleria couldn’t use her name and Vereesa couldn’t even _face_ her to deliver this accursed invitation…

Jaina’s words rattled around her skull.

_‘Are you really not going to try, not even for your own sake?’_

If she were interested in her own well-being she would not go. It was sheer hopeless idiocy to even consider going, she knew full well what awaited her in this doomed venture. And yet her mind drifted to the Gathering and how _happy_ her people seemed in the aftermath, having finally regained parts of their lives they believed lost forever.

Sylvanas knew better than to hope.

She knew better than to take a fresh sheet and her quill.

She knew better than to write a response to Alleria that was anything but rejection.

When she sent it off, it felt as though she had willingly stepped on a land mine, and had yet to lift her foot.

Whatever happened, Sylvanas accepted that she had done this to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is fine. It's fine. This is fine.
> 
> If you enjoy this please let me know in the comments, knowing fuels my motivation.


	5. The Broken Spire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything a god damn ordeal in area family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Depersonalisation throughout Sylvanas's section.

Two days of Sylvanas’s detached, moody skulking from one meeting to the next saw Jaina brooding in her quarters late at night, tired of the teeth pulling exercise that was trying to pry more than a couple of terse sentences out of the Warchief at a time.

Her room was warmed by the crackling hearth, and she was comfortably situated in a plush armchair, it should have been easy to focus, to bury her head in a dense treatise on the nature of the Emerald Dream and the Nightmare within it.

She _wanted_ to let it go, to ignore the twisting in her stomach, to brush off Sylvanas’s mood and leave the Banshee to fester, but Jaina found she could not force herself to be so cold. There was a problem to fix, so her mind lingered, attempting to inspect every component of the issue to see where it would fit together and form a solution. She knew, however, that family was far too messy for _easy_ solutions.

When she realised she’d read the same paragraph for the fifth time, Jaina sighed and rose from her armchair, returning the thick tome to its shelf.

Someone knocked at her door.

Frowning, Jaina walked across and opened it to find Kalira standing stiffly on the other side.

There was an uncomfortable, shifty look in the Dark Ranger's orange eyes.

“Lady Proudmoore.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Almost always, but I will be blunt. Our Lady is refusing a guard on the venture with her sisters.”

Jaina started, immediately reaching for her cloak and staff. “What, why?”

Kalira’s jaw tightened. “The meeting place is… fraught.”

“Where is it?”

“They mean to travel to the Ghostlands and reclaim Windrunner Spire.”

Horrid realisation hit Jaina like a flood of ice down her back, stalling her efforts to secure her cloak. No wonder Sylvanas reacted the way she did, _acted_ the way she had the last couple of days. “Tides,” she muttered, half to herself, “what the _fuck_ are they thinking asking her to go there?”

Kalira shook her head. “I do not know, Lady Proudmoore,” she said softly, before adding with a look that edged into pleading, “Velonara is stalling her in the entry hall.”

Once her cloak was fastened into place, Jaina twisted her hand in a circular motion and wrapped herself in a plume of arcane, Blinking just outside the Hold.

The chill in the air hit her immediately, boots crunching on the frosted ground, and she looked up to see the confused faces of Sylvanas and Velonara standing right on the threshold.

A spot of unfamiliar colour drew Jaina’s eyes to a necklace she had never seen Sylvanas wear before, a polished blue gem hanging on a chain of delicate looking gold rope.

Sylvanas scowled and dismissed Velonara with a subtle gesture.

The Dark Ranger sent Jaina a meaningful look before scurrying inside.

“No,” Sylvanas growled, hands clenched at her sides.

“I’m supposed to accompany you wherever you go in an official capacity.”

“This is a personal matter. It has nothing to do with the Horde.”

“The Warchief meeting with two prominent members of the Alliance in an unofficial meeting will look suspect to outsiders. They won’t see it as sisters trying to reconnect. If I go with you, I can corroborate that it _was_ just a family reunion and no one has an excuse to throw doubt on your intentions, as you know Genn will.”

Silence fell heavy between them, and Jaina refused to look away from Sylvanas’s blistering stare.

It would be easy and comfortable to assume Sylvanas was merely being proud by refusing her rangers' protection. Still, Jaina knew that was only half of it, and that Sylvanas did not want to subject her rangers to the horrors they would relive in visiting the place of their collective death. Horrors Sylvanas was prepared to subject _herself_ to, and Jaina swallowed the hard tangle in her throat upon realising what exactly she had encouraged in ignorance.

 _You shouldn’t be alone,_ Jaina wanted to say but caged behind clenched teeth, hoping that her belligerence about optics and her duty as Witness was a lie Sylvanas would tolerate.

Sylvanas stared at her for what felt like a lifetime, face impassive but eyes burning like molten rubies. Under those eyes Jaina felt as if all the pretence to her words were stripped away with the care of a starving wolf tearing into carrion.

When the silence and Sylvanas’s unblinking stare became all but unbearable, Sylvanas finally looked away. “You may accompany me as far as Eversong,” she spoke in a voice that Jaina had never heard before, low and tight in its restraint to the point that the echo was almost non-existent. “When we find my sisters, I will press on with them, and _return_ to you when our business is concluded. Does that satisfy you?”

Jaina exhaled slowly and nodded, it would have to be enough. “Yes.”

Sylvanas swept passed her without another word, and Jaina hurried to match her long strides, following her to the ever-busy nexus of Pathfinder’s Den.

It may have been well into the evening for Orgrimmar, but upon passing through the portal to Silvermoon’s equivalent nexus, daylight greeted them in a blinding flash. Sunlight spilt through tall, stained-glass windows from all sides, tinted deep red and gold as so many things in Silvermoon were.

The sight of Lor’themar Theron waiting for them immediately made Jaina tense. However, he greeted them with practised neutrality and let them on their way with a few curt pleasantries and some excuse that he was needed elsewhere. His wishing Sylvanas 'good luck' was unbearably close to pitying.

Sylvanas did not speak as they walked, for which Jaina was grateful, she wasn’t even sure what she could say, her thoughts mired in memories of bloodied violet streets and screaming elves. She tried not to look at each face she passed, afraid of who she might see, and pushed it back as best she could.

She insisted on coming, accepted that she would have to wait for Sylvanas to come back.

Enduring the memory her own cruelties seemed only fair.

They passed through the Shepherd’s Gate, and out into the gilded greenery of Eversong, taking a winding path through the forest. Still, they did not speak, and Jaina let her mind drift as she took in the beauty of their surroundings, a beauty almost snuffed out by an arrogant and cold-hearted man.

The mere thought of Arthas caused a wave of frozen, clinging nausea to threaten the bottom of Jaina’s throat, and she baulked at all the time and energy she’d spent pretending everything was normal. What was she to say, exactly, against the word of Lordaeron’s cherished Prince?

She should have struck him down at Stratholme if not for the desperate, wavering lie she told herself. That perhaps, at the last moment, he would realise what it was he was about to do and pull back.

But of course, he didn’t, he wasn’t one to be _told_ what to do by others or to consider the harm his actions wrought, and she knew that. She knew that far too well.

It was a foolish, self-serving lie to make running away easier.

A coward’s choice.

Jaina blinked as she realised she lost track of time.

The bend in the path brought them to a large pond surrounded by ancient golden willow trees, perfectly arched, their shimmering leaves draped in long, flowing curtains.

Two figures sat together on an old bench, quietly talking, one wearing a blue uniform with silver hair, the other in green and hooded.

Sylvanas stopped, and so did Jaina, but the silence remained between them, stretching on for long enough that Jaina got the distinct impression that Sylvanas was hesitating.

Quietly, Sylvanas asked, “why did you come with me, truthfully?”

Jaina broke from the pretence. “You shouldn’t be alone for this.”

Sylvanas all but flinched and didn’t look at her. Instead, the Warchief set her jaw, chin lifting as a stony mask fell into place, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind her back. In her armour, drawn up to her full height, she was easily intimidating, and Jaina saw right through it.

Before Sylvanas could take the first step, Jaina gently said, “I’ll be right here.”

Sylvanas faltered a second, sending her a scant look that caused a twinge of constriction in Jaina’s chest, and she fought down the urge to reach out.

The Banshee walked towards her sisters and Jaina slipped back, out of sight, trying and failing not to fixate on the flash of fear she saw in Sylvanas’s eyes.

* * *

Sylvanas felt distinctly outside herself as she approached her sisters, her eyes drawn to Alleria the most and finding little that was outwardly different. Her senses told her another story, that of writhing, bottomless monstrosity lurking just under Alleria’s skin as if it were nothing more than a suit. It was a stark contrast to the bright, cascading font of Jaina's magic that subtly drew her closer and left the faintest trace of sea salt on her lips. 

_Alleria_ all but bled ravenous, cloying energy that made Sylvanas’s instincts scream at her to recoil lest she be devoured, hit with a stinging, metallic smell that reminded her of an oil spill. Yet, she didn’t even stiffen, no preparation to jump back as it felt like she should, she just stood there, looming behind the bench with words lodged in her throat like fishhooks. It was too thick with something she couldn’t identify.

Vereesa saw her first and stood quickly, stuttering her name, struggling to even hold her stare. The red of Vereesa’s necklace was stark against her uniform's cool blue, like a spot of blood.

Sylvanas expected Alleria’s reaction, pictured it over and over as if that would make it sting any less. The way Alleria froze mid-turn as her eyes landed on Sylvanas, ears rising high in shock, eyes going wide for a second before she hastily reined her expression into something far more measured.

At least she didn’t burst into tears like Vereesa did the first time they saw each other after the fact, but Sylvanas couldn’t remember the last time Alleria cried in front of anyone, even family.

Little reason she would start now.

Sylvanas distantly noted that she too was wearing her necklace, as green as the rest of her armour.

“Lady Moon,” Alleria said with a strained smile, “we wondered if you had gotten lost.”

“Hardly,” she managed, in a voice that felt utterly alien, from an equally foreign mouth.

Alleria’s ears twitched, brows drawing together and smoothing in the same moment with an aborted scowl. “Much as I would prefer to remain here, I did call us together for a reason. Would you lead the way?”

Sylvanas numbly acquiesced and turned to begin leading them out of what remained of Eversong. A furtive tension fell around them, and Sylvanas could barely bring herself to pay attention to it over the disconnected sensation of her body carrying her like a passenger.

The walk with Jaina had been blissfully quiet and almost soothing. It already felt like a distant memory.

She was _aware_ of Alleria and Vereesa talking behind her, only a few steps away. She _should_ have heard them clearly, but it was muffled as if her ears were stuffed with cotton.

Daylight faded as they walked, swallowed by miserable looking cloud cover, sitting heavy in the sky with snow or rain, they would find out.

There was a shift in the air as they draw closer to the Ghostlands and Sylvanas turned abruptly, diverting off the road. If her sisters questioned her, she didn’t hear it, peripherally aware that they followed her regardless. She trudged through the undergrowth that slowly faded from verdant greens to browns and then blighted grey and black until the trees were broken and bare. The grass gave way to the long strip of blackened, blighted land that bisected her home, the fetid, bloody path Arthas carved through her people despite all her struggling.

Alleria gasped somewhere to her right, but Vereesa made no noise worth noticing.

Sylvanas was entirely stiff, arms rigid at her sides, trying not to pick out the broken protrusions of each individual ribcage that lined the Dead Scar so thickly as to be mistaken for grass at a distance. She could taste blood in her mouth, and the smell of tulips nearly choked her as Frostmourne’s mark ached with a frigid, dragging agony.

After over a decade of work to claw back their land, the Dead Scar was far less active than it used to be, but it was far from safe.

Sylvanas spoke again in a voice that wasn’t her own and strung together as many words as she dared, “Do not raise your voice here.” She moved down onto the cursed earth and lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture, necrotic energy engulfing it in a flare of lifeless blue and swirling black.

The bones of unwavering elven war horses burst from the ground at her command, assembling into ghastly facsimiles, all of them with broken alicorns. What did it matter when Alleria had so clearly decided how to feel before they even saw each other?

Even in her current state, Sylvanas could hear the barely restrained disgust in Alleria’s voice. “What are you doing?”

Sylvanas mounted one of the three beasts, staring straight down the length of the Scar as if it were a blade at her throat. “It’s too far,” she said flatly.

Reluctantly, Alleria climbed onto the second horse, and Vereesa, the third.

Pulling ahead, Sylvanas kept to the edge of the Scar and barely blinked as light snow began to fall. She wasn’t sure when her sisters started talking to fill the silence only that she didn’t register the details of their conversation, the sound of their voices almost entirely superseded by a tinny, high-pitched ringing in her ears.

The motion of the horse cantering, hooves thumping into the dead ground, the scrape of her sabatons against barren ribs—why any of that came through clearer than the voices of her only family she didn’t know. Sylvanas focused on it all the same because it was easier than slipping under the weight of her failures and drowning on the spot.

It wasn’t until Alleria pressed a hand to her bicep that she blinked, suddenly aware that Alleria had ridden up next to her on her right and Vereesa on her left. She turned her head only slightly in acknowledgement, eyes locked on the winding charcoal river of the Scar.

Alleria asked, “Sylvanas?” with a wary edge to her voice.

She grunted, “I’m here.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“No.”

Alleria sighed quietly and withdrew her hand, straightening. “I asked if _this_ is what drove you into the arms of the Horde. Last I knew, they were our sworn enemies, butchers and monsters the lot, and now you _lead_ them.”

“Yes.”

“Yes? That’s it? What of the Alliance?”

“Useless.”

“Have you given no thought to returning? Have our people?”

“Once.”

The following silence pressed tight around her throat as she sensed a small, agitated flare of Alleria’s void magic.

She didn’t know how to be better than this, didn't know how to force out the words and provide the more thorough answers Alleria wanted when all _she_ wanted to do was scream. But she was too busy choking that down, clenching her jaws around that pathetic, shuddering response, so she could not risk opening her mouth for anything but the most clipped of answers.

Filling that dearth, Vereesa explained the Purge of Dalaran, the bombing of Theramore and Rhonin’s death colouring her words, but Sylvanas couldn’t find it in herself to correct the way she spoke of her former countrymen. Vereesa had long since distanced herself from the sin’dorei, seeing them as little better than lost children in need of guidance, led astray by false promises.

 _How_ _sanctimonious,_ she thought numbly, as if their people could not decide for themselves what path they took in full possession of their faculties. At least the sin’dorei still had their homelands while the _quel’dorei_ scraped and bowed to the same Alliance that nearly ushered their extinction along.

Her lips curled somewhere between a sneer and a snarl, remembering the way that disgusting _Marshal_ screamed as he burned to death.

A broken road cut across the Scar and Sylvanas guided them to follow it west, turning right. The blackened earth fell behind them, and the snow continued to fall in a silent curtain of white, steadily building up across the boughs of cracked, dead trees and blighted ground.

The shadow of ziggurats loomed through the broken canopy, empty but not yet dismantled, not yet wholly cleansed.

They were almost there, and she couldn’t tell how much time had passed, she completely lost track, too distant from herself to pay attention to such a trivial detail.

The conversation shifted to Garrosh and Sylvanas wilfully shut it out before the ire could overwhelm her. Her loathing for him only slightly eclipsed her disdain for Thrall, foolishly pushing an untested and hot-blooded warrior into a leadership position, and for what, that cherished orcish honour, so nebulous and convenient? She could spit.

Cairne would have been the wiser choice, the measured choice, but that would have required Thrall looking passed his nostalgia and grief, projecting old friendships on a man who ultimately cared very little about him or his expectations.

At least Baine had done an admirable job of shouldering his father’s mantle.

“After all he did, I don’t understand why you didn’t execute him yourself. It was your plan, Sylvanas, why drag Vereesa into it? Wasn’t she suffering enough?”

All sound came rushing back to her in an instant.

The battered leather of the reins creaked in her clenched fists and a roiling inferno burned from the pit of her stomach and up her throat until it felt ready to burst from her lips like dragon fire.

The horses collapsed in a chorus of startled, echoing whinnies and rattling bones.

Alleria swore, Vereesa yelped, and Sylvanas rounded on them with a look that made both of them rear back.

Thick, black smoke bled from her form unbidden. She could feel herself unfurling, shaking from the pure, agonising indignity of it all as her eyes seared into Vereesa like coals. “Is that what you told her, _Little Moon_?” she rasped, her voice so distorted it made her baby sister cringe away from her.

Vereesa couldn’t meet her eyes, stammering out, “I-I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what—own up to your hatred? So you blamed _me_ for it?”

“Sylvanas—”

Her voice raised, harsh and grating as both Vereesa and Alleria’s ears reflexively flattened. “Tell her the truth!” she snapped, pointing a talon at Alleria. “Tell her _who_ dreamt up that little scheme to assassinate a man in cold blood! Who approached _whom_ , Vereesa? Who promised, and pledged, and convinced?”

Vereesa still refused to look, wringing her hands. “Please—” she whimpered.

Sylvanas snarled, closing the distance in a single shadowy step, so she was looming over Vereesa, who shrank. “You simpering coward!” Sylvanas bellowed.

Alleria grabbed her arm, wrenching her away from Vereesa with unnatural strength. “That’s enough, Sylvanas!” she growled, voice echoing with the void’s power.

She hissed and ripped her arm from Alleria’s grip, rounding on her next. “It isn’t nearly enough!” she spat. “Countless lives could have been saved with his death! We may not have had to fight the Legion again had she only the nerve to follow through!”

As her voice echoed around them, howls rose throughout the forest and from the Scar.

Vereesa and Alleria drew their weapons, and Sylvanas let go. Her body shifted in a flood of black smoke, eyes burning like spitting embers and brimstone, tendrils unfurling from her back.

The mindless undead charged from the underbrush and Sylvanas went through them like a wild animal, venting all the tangled, ugly things inside her on their witless bodies. She ripped them apart with her hands, tearing limbs from sockets, her claws bisecting torsos and skulls alike, and her tendrils did the rest, snapping out like whips of immovable steel and tearing undead flesh asunder.

Before long she was surrounded by broken bodies and the howling finally died away, leaving her with a shuddering growl in her throat, and memories of the time she spent helplessly slaughtering her own people clawing at her thoughts.

Behind her, she heard Alleria and Vereesa fall into some heated argument, the words indistinct as she slowly returned to her corporeal self and stepped down on the road.

The echo in Alleria’s voice nearly distorted it. “That _thing_ is not our sister!”

Sylvanas turned with all the stilted grace of a construct, locking eyes with her older sister shimmering with the void’s power. Alleria’s eyes bored into her like stars, hateful and hungering, and at any other time she may have laughed at the way Vereesa shied behind Alleria for the illusion of protection.

One kind of abomination was permitted, it seemed.

The words spilt from her mouth in frigid recollection. “Your sister died here fourteen years ago.” Alleria flinched, the anger on her features fracturing into sorrow, and Sylvanas numbly continued. “She died in pain, cornered, _abandoned_ **,** but it should please you to know that she did not beg for her life. No, she demanded a _clean_ death of her butcher, and for that final act of defiance, she was…” the words stuck in her throat and Sylvanas choked on them.

She remembered it in perfect clarity. The indescribable agony of her soul being torn out and reshaped, bound to another’s will. The way _his_ voice insinuated itself into every corner of her mind, laying bare every inch of who she was for him to torment her with, not a single secret or precious memory left untouched.

The ringing in her ears returned. The only reason she noticed Vereesa and Alleria talking again was that she was looking at them.

Vereesa was crying openly, and gesturing in short, sharp movements that resembled pleading. It didn’t seem to make a difference until she said something that appeared to hit Alleria like a physical blow.

The shroud of the void fell away, and Alleria pressed a hand to her mouth, brows furrowing deep, ears flat.

Vereesa touched her arm and turned with a deflated, slack-shouldered posture and watery eyes, muttering something.

Slowly, they both approached her, and Sylvanas could not bring herself to move. She only had time to register the wet look of Alleria’s eyes before—

Arms wrapped around her, solid, warm, and alive, her sisters each took a shoulder, embracing her fiercely as if to anchor her, and she could not think nor react. They had their opening, either one of them could kill her like this, and they would doubtless be happier for it, so when the seconds dragged and neither of them did it, the realisation that her sisters were actually hugging her hit Sylvanas with all the gentleness of a landmine.

A whimper threatened to escape her throat, and Sylvanas ghosted out of their embrace, leaving them to stumble into each other as she landed a dozen paces down the road.

Alleria grunted, “Sylvanas!”

The warmth of the living clung to her, and she shuddered, resisting the urge to tear at her own skin. “We came here for a reason,” she rasped and began walking anew.

They did not protest, but she heard them fall into step behind her. The left split in the road led to Windrunner Spire, standing high and forlorn against the grey sky, the village sitting miserably in its shadow, yet to be reclaimed and left to rot.

A small scattering of Scourge wandered the Spire, providing no challenge for the three of them together, and as they entered their old home, Sylvanas felt awareness flood into her body, as if her sense of self were yanked back into place.

She slowly walked through the main room, eyes sliding across ruined portrait after ruined portrait until she found their parents.

Lireesa was resplendent in ceremonial armour, their father looking proud and smitten beside her, as hopelessly in love in their final days as they were in their youth.

Alleria sighed somewhere behind her, picking through the debris. “It wasn’t a foolish venture,” she insisted, “Lirath would’ve wanted us to try.”

Sylvanas lingering on her mother’s face a moment more and turned to face her sisters. “Was it everything you _hoped_ it would be?” she asked, sneering.

Alleria’s ears fell. “Is hope so contemptible a concept to you now?”

Sylvanas lifted her arms in a mocking sweep. “Look around you, _Lady Sun_. Does the sight of our home foster hope in you?”

Alleria averted her eyes, exhaling a slow, deep breath. “No. All I see is everything I missed,” she said, and looked at Sylvanas pointedly, “everything I failed to protect.”

“You really should have thought of that when you refused to be Ranger-General, or when you gallivanted off with that paladin of yours.”

“His name is Turaylon.”

“And what _warmth_ you say it with, dear sister.”

Alleria bristled, and Vereesa looked between them worriedly. “Please, don’t,” she said softly, “we’ve all lost too much already. I don’t want to lose either of you again, the first time nearly crushed me, I—I’m not strong enough to do it again. The Horde and Alliance may have a chance at peace now. So can we.”

Sylvanas watched impassively as Alleria sighed and closed her hand around her necklace, mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. Her eyes were downcast and dark, her brow furrowing more as the seconds passed, and with a short, sharp tug, she pulled her necklace off with a snap of the cord.

Vereesa started, ears high. “What are you doing?”

Alleria turned away from them and walked to a table under one of the ruined portraits, setting her necklace on the dust-coated surface. “Putting the past where it belongs,” Alleria murmured, “I fought for a thousand years believing my family would be waiting for me when I returned. If we’re all that’s left, if _this_ is all that’s left—” she cut herself off with a shake of her head. “This is just another remnant laid to rest.”

Vereesa clutched her necklace protectively. “You can’t just give up on us!”

Alleria turned her head just enough to regard only Vereesa. “I’m giving up on what we used to be, Little Moon, not what we _could_ be. You cannot pretend we’re the same as last we saw each other.”

That seemed to cut Vereesa’s legs out from under her and Sylvanas narrowed her eyes as she watched Vereesa stare sadly at the red pendant in her palm.

Sylvanas turned and walked out to the grand balcony, passing the threshold just as she heard the snapping of a cord.

Her necklace felt as heavy as an anchor, and she was half tempted to tear it off and throw it into the churning sea far below, damn her sisters, damn this entire childish venture. But as soon as her hand closed around it, she froze, unable to go any further than that. She clung, finding herself intolerably desperate to retain this last family connection.

Footsteps approached from behind, and she looked over her shoulder to see Vereesa, eyes down, ears flat. “Have you not done enough today?” Sylvanas hissed, making her cringe.

Vereesa’s throat worked around a tangle of emotion that made her voice come out thick and wavering. “I’m sorry.”

Her stomach lurched, and Sylvanas quickly turned away, cold prickling down the back of her neck.

But Vereesa was not done. “You were right, I’m a coward, I couldn’t face what I tried to do or that I dragged you into it. I used you and ran when who I was about to become frightened me. You deserved more than a letter.”

It took every ounce of will power to not round on her sister and scream every hurtful thing that sprang to mind. That Vereesa would apologise _now_ , after avoiding her for years and all but pretending she was in the ground, it stung far more than it soothed.

Sylvanas swallowed all of it and kept her silence, waiting for what felt like an eternity before Vereesa sniffled and walked away.

She felt a flare of void energy and glanced over her shoulder, watching her sisters step through a portal and vanish, all too eager to flee.

They should have known better than to disturb the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this chapter:
> 
> I promise the next chapter will have comfort and gay shenanigans.


	6. Pieces of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina handles the aftermath and Sylvanas realises too late that she has massively miscalculated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _*flips hurt/comfort coin to the comfort side*_
> 
> Start your week off right with some Sapphic Yearning™
> 
> CW: Dissociative episode depicted from the outside.

Waiting turned out to be an agony of the slow variety, stretching seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. Jaina paced until there was a shallow divot in the soft earth, going over everything that may or may not be happening.

She sat on the bench a while, stood at the edge of the pond watching waterfowl, sat against one of the willows, and stood again at the water’s edge, forming patterns on the surface with ice to give herself something to do besides worry.

Worry, about a woman who was more than capable of defending herself, more than capable of killing a dozen people with a single scream, who could shrug off the will of a Legion-born nightmare and strike it down even as the Light threatened to shatter her.

A woman who had spent so long being looked at with hate that Jaina vividly remembered the way Sylvanas flinched at the first friendly touch against her arm.

Jaina did not know Alleria, but she knew Vereesa, and as much time as she spent trying to convince herself otherwise, she _did_ know Sylvanas.

So she worried.

She cast an illusion on herself to appear like any other sin’dorei, in case the pond drew other visitors, only to find herself suffering in silence and solitude until the sun began to set, casting a brilliant orange light through the golden willows that turned the leaves practically incandescent.

Jaina startled at the snap of a cloak and the jostle of chainmail. She spun around, leaving her latest icy creation to melt into the pond, to see Sylvanas standing rigidly by the bench with the vaguest look of confusion. It vanished when she dropped the illusion.

“Well?” Jaina asked, wincing at the blatant worry in her voice.

“Take us back to Orgrimmar.”

The terse command rankled, and Jaina frowned, squaring her chin, but Sylvanas may as well have been carved from stone, impassive and unblinking.

It was then Jaina noticed the necklace was gone and a sharp pain bloomed in her chest. “What happened?” she asked, softer.

More silence, more of that unreadable, glowering stare.

The shadows of Sylvanas’s hood seemed darker than they should be, and Jaina couldn’t tell if it was the sunset or if Sylvanas was instinctively trying to obscure her face. Jaina had only seen her do that a handful of times, an obvious tell of discomfort and shame that Sylvanas almost always controlled, but not now.

Jaina sighed and rubbed her brow. “At least tell me they’re alright.”

The mask cracked slightly in the wilt of Sylvanas’s ears. “They live. I am not _that_ much of a monster.”

Her chest constricted and Jaina held her breath, held in a dozen other things she wanted to say, before she exhaled slowly and said, “I’m sorry, Sylvanas.”

Sylvanas stiffened and clenched her hands. “Don’t,” she hissed.

Jaina sighed softly and weaved the portal to Orgrimmar, scenting the air with samphire as she did so. Frost bloomed from the tips of her fingers and a dull ache throbbed to life in her hands, crawling through the bones of her wrists and up her arms, but she continued as if nothing were wrong. It was just a portal, she told herself, ordinary and practical, of no consequence. People used them all the time, they were invaluable. It shouldn't matter.

When the portal finished forming, Sylvanas passed her with a barely audible ‘thank you’ and stepped through. She did not say anything else as they returned to the Hold and questions clamoured at Jaina’s thoughts, begging to be asked. She _almost_ asked when they passed into the warmth of the main chamber, but Sylvanas abruptly turned and made for the stairs, no doubt set on retreating to her quarters.

An ache spread through her chest that Jaina had no answer to, so instead, she returned to her suite as well.

Exhaustion hit her as she closed the door, but her mind raced, so set her staff aside, sat down at her desk and took a fresh piece of parchment to begin penning a letter to Vereesa.

Of course, she minded her words, carefully inquiring after Vereesa, the boys, and Alleria, before finally asking about their reunion. She gave away nothing regarding how badly it seemed to have affected Sylvanas, hoping instead that Vereesa would trust her enough this time to explain without feeling guilted into it.

When the ink was dry, Jaina carefully folded the letter, addressed it, and sent it directly to Dalaran’s sorting office with a twist of her hand and flare of magic, a simple spell from her time in the Kirin Tor.

She drummed her fingers on her desk, fighting the urge to get up and check on Sylvanas. As if there was anything she could say to blunt whatever had happened to put such a dark cloud over the Banshee. Why she was so fixated on it, Jaina did not want to unravel, just as she did not want to unravel Sylvanas’s careful reticence or consideration for her comfort.

She had noticed. Of course, she had noticed.

It was just easier to pretend otherwise, always easier to pretend, and lie, and convince herself that it was simple and straightforward.

Sighing heavily, Jaina rose from her desk and stripped down for a bath. She scrubbed the long day from her skin and slipped into a simple, loose set of emerald robes, before settling on her bed to read. As tired as she was, her thoughts would not slow down, better that she distract herself than run in mental circles attempting to find an answer she would not reach.

At least she managed it this time.

If anyone needed her for something they would soon say but as the daylight of Orgrimmar transitioned into night, Jaina finally found herself nodding off.

Knocking at her door startled Jaina awake, a well-loved book of maritime adventures slipping off her lap and over the edge of the bed where it hit the floor with a thump. She picked it up and set it on the bedside table, and a glance at the clock told her it was an hour after midnight.

A dull ache had settled in her shoulders, like a tangled cording of live wires discharging a low current every now and then, turning the ache into a twinge.

She cursed softly and hurried to open her door, finding Velonara on the other side, dark-eyed and hood down.

“Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. “What is it?”

Velonara waited until she was finished to say, “we’re worried for her.”

A cold feeling settled in Jaina’s belly, and she slowly crossed her arms. “I assume you’ve checked on her?”

Velonara averted her eyes. “Obviously, but this is…” she hesitated, and her ears dropped. “We don’t know what to do this time. She isn’t speaking and considering what caused it, it’s _difficult_ to broach the subject.”

Another pause and Velonara looked at her. “The last time she was like this was after Loralen,” she said quietly.

Arthas could have cut the ranger down quickly, easily. Jaina remembered all too clearly how he impaled Loralen instead like he was playing out the way he killed Sylvanas right in front of her, with one of her own rangers. She nearly died again when she attacked him in a blind fury, only when Sylvanas was wounded, only when Kalira and Jaina were both dragging her back, did she choose to flee and survive.

Vengeance could always come later.

Steeling herself, Jaina brushed passed Velonara and began making her way to the Warchief’s Suite.

The Dark Ranger fell into step close behind her.

She found Kalira, Anya, and Cyndia clustered just outside the imposing double doors like a murder of crows, their dark armour and darker presence putting them at odds with the warm firelight that lit the Hold.

They argued in hissed thalassian that quickly died at her approach, and three pairs of glowing eyes turned on her, but Anya’s quickly switched to Velonara with an accusatory glare.

Velonara shrugged helplessly.

Jaina looked at them all in turn, raising her brows expectantly. “Well, what have you tried?”

The rangers shared a wary look, obviously catching her meaning but thrown by it. Jaina wasn’t in the mood for them to pretend they didn’t understand what she meant. “Have you given her something to drink?”

They relaxed at that, looking equal parts relieved and curious, and despite herself, Jaina felt a subtle flush of heat in her face. Mercifully, the rangers did not question how exactly she’d come to know about their mistress’s needs.

“We tried,” said Cyndia, her delicate features scrunched in a scowl that wasn’t directed at Jaina. “She isn’t reacting to anything, let alone sustenance.”

Taking a calming breath, Jaina smoothed her hands over her hair and exhaled slowly. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. At the wary looks that got her, Jaina managed a reassuring half-smile. “I’ll be gentle, promise.”

Another shared look, a few twitching of ears, and the rangers parted to let her at the doors. They weren’t locked.

Jaina slowly slipped inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind her and throwing her into almost total darkness. She conjured an arcane light in her palm and held it up, casting a soft blue wash on everything around her, which turned out to be a study rather than the living room she expected. It was entirely practical, lined with dark wood and metal shelves, a large desk near the door, everything militantly neat and fastidiously organised.

There wasn’t a single decorative element or personal touch that Jaina could see, an observation that made something twinge in her chest.

There were three doors, one directly ahead of her slightly ajar, one to her left, and one to her right, both shut.

Jaina moved towards the half-open door and nearly jumped out of her skin when her foot hit something that let out of a metallic clatter against the hardwood. She looked down to see a discarded pauldron, one of the feathers bent to the point of breakage.

Glancing around revealed other pieces of Sylvanas’s armour, haphazardly scattered as if violently thrown off.

Jaina approached the half-open door with a frown and kept her voice low as she asked, “Sylvanas?”

When no response came, she slowly pushed it open the rest of the way, lifting her light again. A bedroom as spartan as the study, if not for the large but plain bed on the other side of the room, Jaina would have mistaken it for a threadbare armoury with it's stands for replacement armour, weapon racks, and only a small dresser off the side. Simple, dark drapes kept any street light from infiltrating the room via the windows either side of the bed, and Jaina’s eyes fixed on a shape to the left of it.

A pair of red glowing eyes cracked open in the darkness, low on the wall, but did not look at her.

Jaina’s feet moved before her mind did.

Sylvanas barely reacted to the light or her presence, a slight twitch of the ear, and her eyes remained wholly unfocused. She sat against the wall, stripped down to her leathers with her legs drawn up and elbows propped on her knees. Without her hood, her hair hung loosely in front of her face, almost hiding it from view.

The sapphire necklace dangled from her right hand, gold cord threaded through her loosely clenched fingers.

Leaving the globe of light to float above them, Jaina knelt next to her. “Sylvanas?” she asked softly, chewing her lip when there was no response, even though she expected that.

Her eyes drifted down Sylvanas’s arms, laid bare and laced with the kind of muscle one would expect of an archer. From her biceps down to the very tips of long fingers, stark white lines cut through her skin's greyed lavender like cracks in pottery. They fractured into smaller and smaller sections the closer to her hands they got, clustering on her palms and fingers at the points of contact with Ashbringer.

The memory of the horrible sizzling, crack it made when Sylvanas picked it up made Jaina cringe.

She slowly pressed her hand to one broad shoulder, where the straps and arming point for Sylvanas’s pauldron lay empty, leaving the cool skin beneath unprotected.

It _should_ have prompted some kind of reaction, Sylvanas _should_ have shied from it, flattened her ears, made a sound, sneered, looked, anything at all, but she didn’t. She was so utterly _still_ that were it not for the glow of her eyes Jaina might have assumed she was truly dead.

It felt like a dagger lodged itself in Jaina’s chest, like she was staring at herself and all the times she spent in a similar state in Theramore’s aftermath.

Swallowing hard against the tightness in her throat, Jaina eased down next to Sylvanas, watching closely for any negative reaction to what she was doing, but there was none.

She reached out and gently pulled at Sylvanas’s shoulders, gripped by a keen and self-conscious awareness of how tall and powerful a frame Sylvanas had, only to relax as it proved incredibly easy to guide Sylvanas down into her arms. The moment Sylvanas’s head touched her shoulder, she went limp, and Jaina tensed at the feel of it.

Sylvanas made no sound, her eyes continued staring into nothing, but in this vulnerable state she submitted to being held, and Jaina had to screw her eyes shut against the sting that brought on.

She wrapped her arms around Sylvanas as tight as she dared, carding a hand through her ashen hair and carefully avoiding slack ears, and said in soft thalassian, “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

There was no reaction to that either, but Jaina hoped Sylvanas heard her, hoped Sylvanas felt some measure of comfort in this, and stayed right where she was, stroking Sylvanas’s hair until her chin slowly dipped and sleep reclaimed her.

* * *

It was just before dawn when Sylvanas finally blinked, awareness creeping back to her like a skittish lynx.

Jaina’s arms were warm, and she nearly started at the feeling of a hand against her head, fingers loosely tangled in her hair. She perked her ears at the sound of Jaina’s breathing, the slow, deep rhythm of someone still fast asleep. The steady beating of a heart against her cheek was as foreign a sensation as it was captivating.

Without thinking, Sylvanas dared to take a breath of her own and was met with the mossy, wooden scent of heather, light and floral at first before the warmth of Jaina’s skin brought out the heavy undertones of musk. It sent a frisson of something heady down her spine, and Sylvanas nearly threw herself across the room.

Gritting her teeth, she slowly and carefully extricated herself from Jaina’s arms and pointedly ignored the tight, roiling sensation in her stomach at the loss.

A small weight tugged on her right hand and without looking, she scowled and tossed the necklace onto her bed.

Stillness enveloped her and Sylvanas stared at the sleeping archmage, weighing her options. She could wake Jaina and have an absolutely _intolerable_ conversation or leave her asleep. The choice was obvious, but it led to another conundrum; whether or not to _move_ Jaina.

It made little difference to Sylvanas, but she knew sitting up against the wall like that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. In all likelihood, it would probably exacerbate whatever chronic issue Jaina was suffering, which Sylvanas heavily suspected was a result of the mana bomb, a more insidious effect beyond Jaina’s bleached hair and faintly glowing eyes.

Carelessly, Sylvanas found herself studying Jaina’s sleeping face, her strong jaw and the freckles scattered across the proud curve of her cheekbones, the soft bow of her lips and the elegant column of her neck. The way her hair tumbled over her shoulder, free of its braid and swept to one side.

She was every bit as beautiful now as she was years ago.

The danger of such thoughts pressed Sylvanas into action, deciding to remove Jaina from her quarters before she could further indulge that delusion, loathsome part of herself.

She reached for Jaina and paused, staring at her outstretched hands, bereft of armour, exposed and hideous, and suited for little better than destroying. She had proven that a thousand times over.

It would only be for a moment, she told herself, she could manage that, couldn't she?

Flattening her ears, Sylvanas carefully gathered Jaina in her arms and lifted the mage as if she weighed nothing.

Sylvanas pretended not to hear her rangers hastily scatter from the door as she carried Jaina out and down the long hallway to the diplomatic suites on the other side of the Hold. She pretended not to notice how soft Jaina’s hair was against her arm, or how warm the breath against her shoulder was. She pretended most of all that her hold was purely perfunctory and not something that could possibly be described as protective or cradling.

Monsters were hardly known for that, after all.

She paused at Jaina’s door, realising too late that she would need to enter the room to set Jaina down, and reminded herself that it was only for a moment.

Rather than risk jostling Jaina, she used a lone tendril to open the door and stepped over the threshold, carefully and silently carrying Jaina to bed and setting her down on the navy duvet.

An intake of breath was all the warning Sylvanas got before a warm hand landed on her forearm.

Jaina’s eyes fluttered open, staring up at her as she loomed over the mage, ashen hair spilling over her shoulder in a curtain, and one scarred hand pressed into the mattress next to Jaina’s waist.

Sylvanas froze, the urge to ghost out of the room warring with a squirming desire to explain herself, that this wasn’t what it looked like, that she had no untoward intentions. That only led to more thoughts, crueller, berating admonishments for even _daring._ She should have asked her rangers to move Jaina.

“Hey,” whispered Jaina, hand remaining right where it was even as she had to realise what she was touching. She couldn’t be that out of it, that tired, and yet her hand did not move.

“Hey,” Sylvanas returned, numbly, unable to think of anything else.

A moment passed of Jaina’s blue eyes staring up at her in the half-light, rooting her in place with their utter lack of hostility, before Jaina asked, “are you alright?”

Sylvanas clenched her jaw. “Are you?” she asked, challenging Jaina to open that door and start baring her wounds too. She _expected_ Jaina to wither at the prospect and just let this nebulous moment die as it should.

Jaina blinked slowly. “If I give you an honest answer, will I get one back?”

There was a pregnant pause. Either Sylvanas ran now, like a coward, or she stood her ground, and despite the squirming in her gut, she gave Jaina the barest nod.

Jaina let out a long, quiet sigh. “Not really, no, but I’ve been worse.” She tilted her head, expectantly.

Sylvanas muttered, “You stole the words from my mouth, Proudmoore.”

Jaina smiled sadly, exhaustion making her eyes heavy, and her hand gently squeezed.

Swallowing, Sylvanas kept her voice low and steady. “There isn’t much to be done today. You should go back to sleep.”

Jaina’s eyes flicked to the clock, and she seemed to mull it over for a few seconds before sighing again. “Wake me in two hours,” she said, idly stroking her thumb against Sylvanas’s arm.

A heavy feeling settled behind her sternum at the touch and Sylvanas schooled her features into neutrality, forcing her ears out of a pathetic wilt. "Fine."

Finally, Jaina pulled her hand away, but not before saying, “And drink something. I remember it helps you feel grounded.”

 _Anar’alah_ , she tried, she _tried_ not to remember the heat and taste of magic-heavy blood knitting her battered body back together, the sound of hitching breath and a racing heart, the feel of soft skin against her lips, or the heavy red of flushed cheeks. She certainly tried not to remember the way Jaina’s eyes had looked everywhere but her.

Sylvanas only managed a hum of acknowledgement and pulled away, watching as Jaina almost immediately fell asleep. She lingered a moment before backing out of the room and carefully shutting the door.

She propped her brow against it, closed her eyes, and cursed under her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	7. Whispers on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina learns something new about Zihan, tries to broach a difficult subject with Sylvanas, and a report of alarming activity in Ashenvale prompts an investigation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's plot time!
> 
> CW: Some body horror.

Jaina was surprised to find her half-asleep request honoured, as she was roused from bed two hours later by Zihan bringing her breakfast, a light and fluffy omelette, a toasted bagel with cactus fruit jelly and of course, rich, delicious coffee.

She was even more surprised, and relieved, to wake up no worse for her late-night visit. The ache in her shoulders had neither worsened nor fully died down, and it was mild enough that she could move without giving herself away.

Small miracles.

The fact that Sylvanas chose to move her back to her much more comfortable bed nipped at her thoughts like a puppy at her heels and she pushed it aside for now, there was coffee to consume.

“Thank you, Zihan,” she said, sitting at her table by the window. She brought the coffee to her lips and gratefully inhaled the scent, feeling slightly more awake for it already.

Clear skies left Orgrimmar awash in sunlight, bringing out the red of the canyons, and the city was alive with noise, indistinct chatter, carts and wagons hurrying back and forth, the jingle of chainmail and beating of wings as wyvern patrols passed by. It wasn’t all that different from Stormwind, or Dalaran.

“Of course, Lady Proudmoore,” smiled Zihan with a polite cant of his head. He wore a neat black silk vest and pants today, with a silvery belt and braided leather around his wrists. “Anything else?”

She chewed her lip a moment and looked out the window. “Is the Warchief alright?”

Zihan responded easily, “she is quite well.”

Jaina frowned lightly and looked at him, wondering if she could even ask him the truth of it, if he even knew.

Zihan’s smile warmed with understanding, his green eyes twinkling. “She has been well-fed, Lady Proudmoore,” he said, “I have seen to it.”

She blinked. “You’re a lot less bothered by that than I thought you’d be.”

A gentle chuckle rumbled out of him. “My job here is to take care of Lady Windrunner’s needs,” he said, shrugging. “She may not eat as her guests do, but I am no stranger to the butchering of animals nor the preparation of their blood for the more sanguine of dishes. Different beings have different needs, I would no sooner try to feed a tiger with melons than I would an antelope with clams.” He looked thoughtful a moment, tapping a claw to his chin. “Lady Windrunner is akin to a vampire bat, I would say.”

The comparison almost made Jaina laugh into her coffee, coughing and getting it on her chin instead.

Zihan grinned cheekily as she dabbed it away with a napkin. “Besides, for all her glowering and macabre stylings, I find her no more frightening than any other individual sufficiently skilled enough to kill me,” he said casually, “and I find myself not easily killed.”

She raised a brow at him, a hundred questions flitting through her mind at such a statement, and he bowed graciously. “I am from the Order of the Broken Temple,” he explained simply, straightening. “I believe I present a far less obvious threat than Lady Windrunner’s rangers, formidable women that they are. Should anyone threaten you or her, they will pay far more attention to the rangers over me—which will be their last mistake.”

Jaina eyed the burly pandaren again in a new light and found herself feeling a bit more secure in his presence. She canted her head with a half-smile, “well, thank you for your service.”

“Of course, Lady Proudmoore.”

“Jaina, if you don’t mind.”

Zihan bowed with kind smile. “Lady Jaina.”

He waited to take her tray but did not rush her, neutralising the pressure of his presence with casual conversation, small, trivial things he nonetheless made interesting through the comforting cant of his voice. The fresh clams he baked for his family the night before, grown and harvested around the Echo Isles, the delightfully earnest young orc he met at the market earlier that morning, handling the family stall on their own for the first time, and a recipe he was secretly working on, inflicting each new iteration on his long-suffering but always willing husband.

Zihan snickered. “He puts up with _so much_ , it’s a wonder we’re still together.”

She smiled, setting her empty cup on the tray. “Who could resist such fine food?”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all.”

Zihan took up her tray and made for the door, only to pause just as she opened her mouth. “Oh,” he said, and looked back at her knowingly, “Lady Windrunner is in her quarters I believe.”

A faint warmth rose in her cheeks and Jaina sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Thank you.”

Zihan nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Unwilling to let them wander, Jaina quickly showered and slipped into her usual battledress. Leaving her cloak and gauntlet behind, she stepped out of her room and found Kalira waiting outside.

“Good morning, Lady Proudmoore,” she said, quickly falling into step as Jaina began making her way across the Hold. “Are you well?”

Jaina sighed. “A little stiff but well enough," she said, adding without thought, "and you?”

There was a slight pause before Kalira answered with a quiet. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Velonara and Cyndia stood guard outside the Warchief’s Suite, the latter opening the door for Jaina after a brief knock and Sylvanas’s distracted ‘enter.’

A hanging brazier burned overhead, filling the study with warmth and light. Like much of the Hold it was all stone walls and metal beams, but the hardwood floor was stained a deep, dark red. It lacked the carpets of Jaina’s room, placed for comfort and decoration, or really any touch of either. The large desk was the most lavish piece in the room and that was only so it could accommodate more work.

Jaina quickly spotted Sylvanas sitting on a plain, hardwood bench pushed against the rightmost wall, a thick tome in her hands. It was bound in tough looking hide with a cover Jaina couldn’t identify, but Sylvanas quickly snapped it shut and laid it flat in her lap, sitting up a little too straight to be comfortable.

Sylvanas clearly still didn’t take to comfort easily, if at all, and it caused a twinge behind Jaina’s ribs. She wondered briefly if Sylvanas could stand seeing her own reflection yet, but she didn’t notice a mirror anywhere last night.

Sylvanas sat with most of her armour on, only lacking her cloak and pauldrons. Jaina hadn’t yet grown used to seeing her without her hood.

“Thank you,” she said, slowly and stiffly, “for being there.”

Jaina lightly shook her head. “It was no trouble, and you don’t _have_ to tell me what happened, but if you want to, or feel like it would help to have someone simply listen, I _am_ offering.”

Sylvanas looked away from her, ears flattening. “No.”

Nodding, Jaina quickly moved along. “You look better. Zihan assures me you did in fact drink something.”

It wasn’t just words, Sylvanas remained a severe and gloomy sight but there was a little more colour to her face, a little more vitality to her movements, she wasn’t nearly as motionless as when she ran low.

Red eyes flicked towards her. “Well, the Lady insisted,” Sylvanas drawled, making a sweeping gesture at her.

Jaina tilted her head. “And the Lady is glad.”

The quirk at the corner of Sylvanas’s mouth caused an involuntary smile of her own, at least until Sylvanas noticed and arched a brow.

Jaina cleared her throat, nodding at the book. “What do you have there?”

Sylvanas shifted on the bench to make room for her.

Swallowing, Jaina moved to sit down, tucking her skirts under her legs. Her knee tapped against Sylvanas’s armoured one but other than a slight flick of the ears she didn’t react in any way to their proximity but to open the book on the last page she was reading.

Both pages were taken up by technical drawings of the same octopus-like creature in different stages of dissection, and Jaina quickly recognised it as zoatroid, otherwise known as a ‘mind-squid’ or the more apt epithet ‘merciless one.’ Fine notation labelled important structures, layers of skin and connective tissue pinned back to expose the ghastly inner workings in the aberration’s mantle.

Sylvanas regarded the images with the vague interest of someone who had already absorbed the information. “A collection of research notes regarding the Old Gods,” she explained simply, flicking a few pages forward to a hastily written note.

_N’Zoth is often described as the weakest of the Old Gods. But this is only in sheer destructive force, and we would be fools to underestimate its ability to destroy, it is still a creature of unfathomable power._

_It’s greatest threat is its ability to insinuate into the minds of others. In point of fact, it’s affinity for such things far surpasses that of Yogg-Saron._

Jaina shivered reading that name, her thoughts quickly backsliding to the horrors of Ulduar, sleepless nights in Dalaran spent researching, planning, and preparing, and everything else surrounding those sleepless nights.

She chewed her lip until her silence prompted Sylvanas to ask her, “What is it?”

Jaina swallowed thickly and shifted to face Sylvanas straight on, which only seemed to make the elf tense even more, ears sitting high and alert while her sharp features settled into a steely mask. “You didn’t mean a word of it, did you?” Jaina whispered.

It was more a statement than a question, one that made Sylvanas jolt. Her eyes widened and she turned her face away, ears swivelling back into a harsh slant. Her eyes darted everywhere but Jaina and Jaina didn’t press, waiting instead to see if Sylvanas would let go of that particular lie. Part of her wanted Sylvanas to admit it, confirm what she’d known and ignored for years, but she didn’t know what she would do with that information, it was all so very messy.

It would be so much simpler to lie again.

Sylvanas’s ears twitched up just before the doors opened.

Jaina turned her head to see Anya briskly saluting.

“Dark Lady, we’ve received troubling reports along the border with Ashenvale.”

“What is it?”

“There appear to be thousands of kaldorei fleeing the forest. They’re crossing into Azshara, the Barrens, and Stonetalon, and all of them are telling stories of shadowy horrors bursting from the water ways, of Sentinels and civilians alike going berserk and butchering people in their homes.”

Cold flooded Jaina’s stomach and she stood at the same time as Sylvanas, who ordered darkly, “call everyone to the council chambers. _Now._ ”

* * *

An emergency meeting with the Horde leadership quickly became an emergency meeting in Suramar with the Pact and Anduin once the news reached his ears.

A great deal of tension filled the room. There was no word from Tyrande or Malfurion, and when questioned, Thalyssra uncomfortably confirmed she could not reach the Battlelord; something was blocking their arcane communion.

In the Battlelord’s place at the table sat not the male frost troll Jaina saw at the Gathering, but a towering and ornery draenei woman, Iresallin, Jaina believed her name was.

“And what is happening to the refugees?” Genn demanded, fixing hard, flinty eyes on Sylvanas only. “Where are they being taken?”

Nathanos looked about ready to club him in the back of the head and Jaina had to wonder how Anduin kept the two from strangling each other all the time. Sitting between them probably helped.

“The refugees are being sheltered or otherwise escorted to safer areas,” Sylvanas responded in a cutting, unimpressed tone, not even bothering to meet Genn’s stare but instead fixating on a point above Anduin’s head. She sat with her elbows resting on the table, hands in a steeple. “They are not being _taken_ anywhere they do not wish to be.

Genn narrowed his eyes.

“Thank you, Warchief,” Anduin said quickly, “a fair number of kaldorei have arrived safely in Stormwind to stay with family until this is over.”

Sylvanas canted her head in mild acknowledgement. “We must focus on our next course of action.”

“Conjuror, if you would?” offered Jaina, glancing down the table.

Aru Blackstrike was an orcish woman of solid build, brilliant mind, and deceptively plain robes, but her gold eyes shined with power, belying her station. She leaned on the table with her hands clasped, fingers banded with rings of ensorcelled silver.

“Thank you, Lady Proudmoore,” she said, regarding everyone in the room before continuing in a stern voice. “The Tirisgarde cannot hone in on the portal anchors in Darnassus, and we aren’t sure if that’s part of the blockage or if the anchors have been destroyed outright. We _could_ risk teleporting a small contingent with reasonable accuracy, but without knowing what’s going on or the exact nature of the interference itself, that could prove fatal to whoever we send.”

She extended her hand in a conceding gesture to a black-furred pandaren man in dark red leathers who sat directly across from her. “Crane, what have your little _mice_ discovered for us?”

The Shadowblade flashed sharp, white teeth in an unfriendly smile at her descriptor.

“Nothing pretty,” he grunted, his voice low and smoky, “a lot of bodies and butchery, people with tentacles for eyes, spitting blood and salt water, typical Old God shit messing with bodies and minds the way nothing should. Most of ours came back lucid but a number of them were pretty shaken. There’s something not right about the forest, can’t put a claw on it.”

He looked to his immediate left, where a lean and scarred draenei woman sat in well-maintained but heavily nicked chainmail. “Suloh, your folk took the air, what did they see?”

“A bloodbath,” said the Huntmaster, entirely blunt, “Astranaar was a massacre but our scouts did see signs of survival. Folk are still fighting down there and what remains of the Sentinel Army that didn’t turn seems to have fallen back to Forest Song and Stardust Spire. They’re keeping the way open to Stonetalon, Felwood, and Azshara.”

She frowned deeply, rapping her knuckles in the table before she said, “Zoram’gar Port is empty.”

Anduin blinked. “Empty?” he echoed, glancing at Sylvanas.

Since the treaty, Zoram’gar 'Outpost' had been demilitarised to serve as a civilian trading port with only enough protection to serve as guards, and was a much softer target as a result.

They did not know much beyond initial reports and Suloh inhaled slowly, tilting her head back and forth as if debating how to phrase it.

Sylvanas watched her intently, eyes narrowed. “Your reports indicated a survivor. A shaman from the Earthen Ring.”

Sighing, Suloh nodded. “All my scouts could see from the air was blood and churned sand. There were drowned and butchered bodies washed up all along the strand, orcs and night elves both, but none with weapons on or even near them.” Her sharp, white glowing eyes flicked across everyone at the table. “It didn’t look as if anyone was dragged into the ocean, and it didn’t look as if they fought each other either.”

She looked across at Sylvanas, lifting a spindly index finger to the ceiling. “We found a lone shaman who blubbered like a babe. He told us that the elves washed up and a fog swept in after them. Everyone began to act out of sorts, as if dazed, then dropped whatever it was they were doing and began marching into the sea to drown.”

Cold prickled the back of Jaina’s neck. She wanted to ask if it was the work of kvaldir, it certainly sounded similar, but she dismissed the idea quickly. If Helya was to be believed, the kvaldir no longer existed, and no one had reported a sighting in nearly a year. “Naga?”

Suloh grimaced, nodding again. “Yes, a sea witch. The shaman did not discover her until it was too late to save anyone.” Her mouth curled somewhere between distaste and sympathy and she looked away. “His fellows are treating him for shock.”

“And what about the wisp wall, what do we know about that?”

“That is where I’m lost, unfortunately. Archdruid?”

Jaina looked to her left, down the opposite end of the table, where Kaellarin Starwing sat with a look of deep thought dominating her hawkish features. She was at least as old as the Battlelord, both of them kaldorei elders who survived the Great Sundering, and all one needed for confirmation of her druidic power was to look at the sharp, white antlers sprouting from her hairline and the glowing amber wells of her eyes.

“At first we believed it was only blocking passage _in_ to Darkshore,” she started, her tone measured, “but nothing can _escape_ through it either, it may be containing something. Perhaps the Naga or something worse, I am unsure, I would need to go there myself. But we believe Stormrage erected it, he was the only druid in the area at the time capable of coaxing our people’s spirits into such a formation.”

The dark and contemplative look on Anduin’s face stole his youth, casting an echo of Varian in its place. “Our scouts have had no luck approaching Teldrassil,” he said evenly, looking at Sylvanas.

A twitch if displeasure tugged at the Warchief’s lips. “Ours have suffered the same.”

Suloh grunted, “ours as well, the deeper they press the worse it gets.”

Scouts _attempted_ to bypass the wall by flying over the sea, only to begin losing track of time and getting turned around until they found themselves rather abruptly back at their starting position with no memory of how they got there.

“Whoever goes in will require blessings of protection to fortify the mind,” came the smooth, deep timbre of High Priest Kayo Sunsinger.

All attention briefly turned to the tauren, burnt umber and golden furred, with eyes like polished citrine. She all but radiated a warm calm. “The Conclave can prepare whoever is chosen, but the larger the group the longer it will take.”

Anduin nodded and looked at Sylvanas. “I propose a joint operation,” he said.

Genn pushed to his feet with a growl. “You cannot be serious!” he snapped, glaring from Sylvanas to Anduin. “This is too tenuous a situation to trust with the Horde! Our people are at risk and you want to bring those they were at war with not even a year ago into it?”

The tension in the room rocketed to a deathly quiet and Jaina clenched her jaw. She could not say she blamed him, in his position she would be just as wary, part of her still was, part of her still recoiled at the notion of a Horde banner meaning anything other than imminent attack. But she thought of the Gathering, and of all those around her working day after day to move passed their pains and break the cycle of hatred that had gripped their world for so many long and bloody years.

They were not going to get anywhere if they did not _try_ to trust each other when it mattered.

She opened her mouth and a chair dragged against the floor, drawing her attention to a figure off to her left.

Dressed in fine, black and silver silks, Netherlord Nathaniel Dryden was a worgen of refined and regal features, even as the tall and slender timber wolf of his wild form, which Jaina had never seen him out of. He fixed his glowing violet eyes on his former king with no small level of contempt, ears pricked.

Genn glared back at Nathaniel, still human in all but the golden shine of his eyes.

“You would risk the kaldorei’s safety waiting for Alliance forces to handle this alone,” he rasped, the rough and ragged voice of someone who survived a hanging. “The Horde is unquestionably closer, and this is exactly the kind of situation where trust is cemented. Let them prove themselves.”

“Many of our people still call Teldrassil home, they are in just as vulnerable a position as the kaldorei!”

“ _Our Queen_ and the Crowleys are rebuilding our homelands as we speak, _with_ aid from the Horde no less. You know as well as I do that they’ve had all the chances in the world to wipe us out if they wanted to. Why would they risk it now? What have they to gain? We start picking fights now, we fail to work together, and we're _all_ fucked."

Genn’s face twisted with rankled pride and anger, for Nathaniel spoke the truth, a large part of the treaty involved handing full control of several regions to one side or the other, and one such region was Gilneas itself, the most ardently argued for, in fact.

Labourers and resources from the Horde were helping the reconstruction efforts, along with _Pact_ guards to keep said labourers safe without making the Gilneans understandably nervous with a Horde military presence.

It was slow, tentative work to clean up ruined houses and neutralise the aftereffects of chemical warfare. The wounds of Garrosh’s intent for the country would take a long time to heal, but the work was being done in sincerity and Genn could not deny that.

Nonetheless, he growled, his eyes lightning up, only for Anduin to put a firm hand on his shoulder. “The Netherlord makes a fine point,” he said, glancing at Aru, “if outside teleportation is still a risk, then the safer bet is to approach by more mundane means, and the Horde is undeniably closer to this crisis.”

Genn looked as if he were being stabbed in the back and deflated, slowly sinking back into his seat, his eyes boring into Anduin.

Jaina did not care for that look and filed it away for later. She wanted it to be nothing, just wounded pride and ego, but she knew such things could always be the catalyst for something much worse.

Anduin dropped his hand and turned his gaze to Sylvanas. “I was hoping for something a little less dramatic to test the treaty,” he said lightly, “but are you willing?”

Sylvanas was silent a moment, her brow furrowed, and she leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands over her stomach. “We would need a way through the wall first,” she said evenly. “Can it be pierced?” she looked at the Archdruid for that.

Kaellarin nodded once. “I believe so, I would need to come with you.”

“Very well. High Priest Sunsinger—”

“I will prepare your people, Warchief.”

“My thanks.”

* * *

The squadron assembled atop the main zeppelin bluff of Orgrimmar in the late-afternoon sunlight, two-hundred strong and made up of distinguished Horde soldiers, Pact members, and the Pact council itself, readying themselves for the flight to Darkshore and beyond. At least a third of their number was made up of powerful magic users of one school or another, and each individual Pact leader was formidable in their own right.

As Jaina understood it, if anything happened to them, there were designated individuals to fill the void.

Most of the beasts being prepped for flight were wyverns, but the Pact's diverse and eclectic talents were reflected in their steeds, as hippogryphs, arcane constructs, elemental beasts, drakes, and even a couple of regal cloud serpents stood out from their gathered forces. The handful of druids in their number had no need of such things, naturally, and simply stood waiting to leave.

Jaina walked the edge of the assembled until she reached the front where Sylvanas stood with Velonara, Anya, and Kalira, and the chittering _dire bats_ that waited behind them. ‘Bats’ seemed inaccurate; the beasts had arms separate from their wings, long, whip-like tails and top-heavy, lumbering postures ill-suited to their slender bodies. But she certainly couldn’t deny their heads resembled those of bats, if overly large and monstrous ones with far too many teeth.

One was larger than the others, bone-white with a dark, russet mane and liquid black eyes. It snorted at her approach and Sylvanas half-turned, slowly scratching under its chin which immediately calmed the beast.

“Hush,” Sylvanas muttered to it.

“I don’t know what else I expected you to ride,” Jaina said lightly, stopping next to her. “A wyvern, foolishly.”

“And forgo giving Dahlia her exercise? How cruel.”

“You called it _Dahlia?_ ”

“No, her breeder did.”

“Her. Right.”

Jaina looked over the dire bat again, who regarded her through squinted eyes, still enjoying the lazy scratching. She stole a sidelong glance at Sylvanas and found a hint of a smile on the Banshee’s face.

“Warchief! We’re ready!”

At that, Sylvanas’s expression dropped back into cold neutrality.

Jaina glanced over her shoulder to see the rest of the squadron had finished preparations. A few were going over some last minute checks, making sure tack and supplies were secure, adjusting visors or flight masks, but most sat waiting.

The rangers quickly mounted their bats and Jaina looked up as Sylvanas did the same, only to then hold out her arm for Jaina.

She blinked at the casualness of it. Of course, she didn’t know how to ride a wyvern and it wasn’t as if Orgrimmar had a thriving population of gryphons, so with teleportation out of the question it left one option at such short notice.

It seemed Sylvanas had known that too, and known that Jaina wasn’t prepared to rely on a stranger to fly for her.

A silent, mutual understanding. Like so many others between them.

Sighing, Jaina secured her staff to Dahlia’s back alongside Deathwhisper. Her fingers briefly touched the skeletal bow and even through her gloves she felt an unnatural chill permeate. Strapped next to it was a horn Jaina hadn't seen before, the kind one would might use to signal during battle, and she could feel a strange energy lingering within it, ancient and cold, but not so off-putting as the hungering magic of the bow. She shook it off and moved up Dahlia’s flank to take Sylvanas’s arm.

Sylvanas pulled her up with ease, as steady and immovable as steel, and it was only as she slid into the saddle behind Sylvanas that Jaina realised she had made something akin to an error. It shouldn't have been a problem. It wasn't the first time she had ridden behind someone, and yet warmth crept up her neck anyway as, once more, she found herself keenly aware of how tall and broad Sylvanas was. She pointedly _ignored_ the cold pressure of armoured hips and legs against her open thighs in favour of arguing with herself over where _exactly_ she was meant to place her hands.

The mix of tulips and iron ozone wrapped around her and it took Jaina a moment to even notice Sylvanas was offering something over her shoulder without looking. “Here,” she said in a clipped voice.

Jaina blinked at the flight goggles and took them.

At her silence, Sylvanas explained, “the wind will not bother _me_ , but unless you plan to hide your face the entire way, I suggest wearing them.”

Mumbling a thank you, Jaina slipped the goggles into place, rendering the world a shade darker. She could feel the tiny thrum of runes etched along the rims, ready to brighten her vision when night fell.

She watched Sylvanas clip to the saddle and quickly did the same, but she still didn’t know where to put her hands when Sylvanas lifted a clenched fist and called, “with me!”

A rallying cry rose from the squadron, Dahlia lurched into the air, and Jaina reflexively wrapped her arms around Sylvanas’s waist, pressing into her back, brow propped against the hidden nape of her neck. Jaina half-expected to be pushed away or shrugged off for clinging so, her stomach dropping as the ground fell way, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t even as the seconds turned to minutes, the motley squadron quickly leaving Orgrimmar behind them as they crossed over the Southfury River.

If Sylvanas was bothered by it, Jaina couldn’t tell, couldn't even see her face really, but gradually Jaina managed to relax without being pressured to do so. She slowly settled into the swaying motion of Dahlia’s wing beats until her arms were only loosely circled around Sylvanas’s waist, far closer to a hug than a fearful grapple. That wasn’t pushed away either, and Jaina forced her thoughts away from examining that too much. They had too long a journey ahead of them for her to torture herself about that or whatever Sylvanas's answer would have been.

At least with the favourable winds provided by the Farseer and his shamanic comrades they would make good time.

The rugged flats and canyons of Durotar dipped out of sight, giving way to the verdancy of Ashenvale’s ancient forest. They kept above the canopy and skirted along the southern edge, revealing each passage and road through which kaldorei fled into the Barrens.

The Mor’shan Pass was thickest with them, another change for the treaty, another military installation rebuilt into a civilian one as the Horde relinquished their claim on Ashenvale in return for good trade in lumber.

Below them, Horde soldiers worked to keep things orderly, if tense, helped along by people from the Cenarion Circle and the Conclave. Most of the kaldorei had escaped with barely enough time to grab their belongings and many lingered, waiting for friends and loved ones to show. All would eventually move on, ushered to a makeshift camp at the Crossroads or through a portal to Moonglade. Most took the latter.

Escape routes vanished with the closing of the mountains, leaving only ragged foothills and endless forest, the orange rays of the setting sun skating across the rolling violet and green carpet of Ashenvale’s canopy. By the time they reached Stardust Spire, the sun’s warmth was almost completely bled from the sky, leaving behind only the faintest traces of light blue and peach.

Battered and bloody Sentinels looked up in alarm at their arrival, in the middle of ushering scared civilians into Stonetalon.

Archdruid Kaellarin dove down before they could sound the alarm, sporting the white antlers even in the form of a magnificent great owl.

Sylvanas signalled to stop and the squadron soared down as one, scattering to find suitable landing spots around the mountain pass bracketing the Spire.

Jaina held tight again and relented only when Dahlia brought them down to landing a short distance from the Archdruid, who seemed to be addressing the highest ranking Sentinel present, a grim-faced woman with blood-stained blue hair and damaged armour. Her silver eyes burned into them and her hand rested near the clip of her glaive.

“I understand, Captain Summermoon,” Kaellarin said firmly, drawing those silver eyes back to her. “I know this doesn’t feel quite right yet, it’s hard to shake what you’ve come to know so well, but I assure you this is only the treaty in action—it means the Horde will come to our aid when required, and we to them. Now, can you tell us anything about what you’ve seen thus far?”

After a long moment, the Captain sighed and moved her hand away from her glaive. “Not much more since your scouts came through, I’m afraid,” she said, grimacing. “My people are doing their best to keep it calm here, that seems to be the catalyst. Too much fear and paranoia, you crack, start hearing and seeing things, attacking others.”

“And any sight of naga?”

“No. Just faceless ones, or things like them, they’re different this time, shaped and sized more like a human. ‘K’thir’ we believe they’re called. One of my huntresses witnessed a ritual that turned a human into one of them.”

An icy feeling settled in Jaina’s stomach. The words tugged at memories of old sailor’s stories about men of claws and tentacles dragging their crewmates overboard amid unnatural storms, and bedtime stories of the same monsters just waiting to snatch misbehaving children and pull them into the briny deep.

She swallowed hard against the rising lick of bile in her throat.

A curt farewell saw them back in the sky, and they carried on to Zoram’gar Port, finding it as desolate and empty as expected. The silvery light of a full and rising moon glittered across the bay, laying bare things best left unseen.

There was no fog left thanks to the rattled shaman, but the gruesome bodies remained, ribcages splayed open and hollowed out as if fileted. Both the rattled shaman and the scouts failed to mention how the bodies were filled with violet ragworms, scouring the corpses down to the bone, surviving in the open air long passed the point of natural means.

Jaina did not blame them for wanting to forget it.

Thankfully, they were too high in the air to catch wind of it, and they did not stop at the Port, swerving northward up the grey expanse of the strand and over the sprawling marble ruins of Blackfathom, until the sand gave way to scrub grass, hills, and the encroachment of towering oaks and ancient redwoods.

The transition into Darkshore came quickly with dark and silvery greens overtaking the bright and vibrant ones of Ashenvale, and the shimmering blue curtain of the wisp wall that blocked all access in and out of its dreary, battered landscape.

The squadron landed again and signals to dismount were given, allowing their beasts to drink and rest a moment.

Dahlia chittered and sat down, folding her long arms with a heavy snort and a shake of her head, jingling her tack.

Sylvanas jumped from the saddle and Jaina slid, letting out a long breath when her feet touched solid ground, finally.

She removed the goggles and rubbed around her eyes to get rid of the impressions, blinking.

The wisp wall towered, stretching from the water’s edge and up into the foothills of the sheer mountains separating Darkshore from Ashenvale and Felwood. A diffuse blue glow saturated the air around it. To see so many wisps at once, tens of thousands of them, knowing each one represented a slain kaldorei, deepened the icy dread sitting in Jaina’s stomach until it felt like she had swallowed an anvil.

That it happened so quickly—more and more she couldn’t help but think it targeted. They hadn’t heard of anything else like it happening in Stormwind, or Suramar, or any other population centres too close to the sea.

Even Zandalar, in all its might, was not immune to the changing world, but neither the Highlord nor the Grandmaster had reported anything like this, only a brewing civil unrest and blood cultists.

Her mind jumped to Kul Tiras and the icy dread spread to her heart. It wasn’t the first time she wondered about the well-being of her homeland, but she had always tried to temper it, to tell herself it wasn’t her place, that she had long since forfeited the _right_ to worry, and that even if it _did_ need help it would never accept it from her.

She wondered again how much damage the wave must have done and told herself, _again_ , that the Tidesages would have countered it.

She had to believe that.

High Priest Sunsinger approached her for the blessing, hands aglow with rippling sun-kissed magic as they wove a seemingly simple spell.

The smell of spiced honey and fresh-baked bread warmed the air as Kayo cast, and it washed over Jaina in a pulse, bringing with it a sense of calm that didn’t feel _imposed_ so much as supported, as if she could better control her fears, at least for the moment.

Breathing deeply, Jaina canted her head. “Thank you, High Priest.”

Kayo bowed back and moved on to prepare the others.

Feeling more present, Jaina walked up to the wisp wall where Sylvanas stood with her arms crossed, observing the Archdruid at work.

Kneeling at the threshold with her clawed hands outstretched, Kaellarin was a powerful one to witness. Jaina could feel the strength of her presence in the earth and air around them as she communed, like an electric charge that raised the hairs on the back of her neck and gooseflesh along her arms, bringing with it the smell of petrichor, wildflowers in summer, and a hint of ozone.

Fresh, verdant growth of all kinds bloomed beneath the Archdruid’s bare feet as if the Emerald Dream could not help but spill through when she exerted her power.

Quietly, Jaina leaned closer to Sylvanas and asked, “can the High Priest even bless you and the rangers? Will you be alright?”

Sylvanas blinked, an ear cocking to one side as she regarded Jaina slowly. “A similar blessing can be bestowed by a shadow priest, matters of the mind are a strength of theirs, but such things always come down to willpower. The strength of mind to resist the will of another,” she said, a hard edge entering her voice, “you might say I have _experience_ doing exactly that.”

Awkwardly clearing her throat, Jaina fixed her eyes on the Archdruid. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

A moment passed with the distant waves lapping and soft chatter amongst the squadron, before a quiet sigh left the Banshee at her side. “I... _appreciate_ where it came from.”

In a large flare, Kaellarin threw out her arms, causing a ripple in the wall that sparkled like stardust. She rose to her feet and turned to face them with a troubled look, her ears slanting low.

Jaina spoke first, “Archdruid?”

“The wisps will allow us passage, but I have confirmed that we face the forces of N’Zoth here. There are more faceless ones than naga present, as far as I can tell.”

Sylvanas uncrossed her arms. “What else, Archdruid? You look pale.”

Kaellarin’s frown deepened. “The High Priestess yet lives, I could sense her and others in Lor’danel but Stormrage is _absent_ , even in the Dream.” She paused, mouth twisting briefly into an elvish baring of fangs before settling back into a measured look. “I do not wish to make assumptions at this time, but it suggests nothing good.”

Jaina focused on Tyrande’s status. “Could you tell if they’re under attack?”

“Darkness was concentrated around them but has not yet consumed them. Teldrassil felt _shrouded_ , difficult to discern, it should not be so. It is a World Tree, it should be a beacon—something is very wrong.”

“What about where it’s less concentrated? Perhaps we can use that to move unnoticed, or at least without being attacked.”

The Archdruid rocked back on her heels, eyes drifting skyward as if to think, and she nodded slowly. “It is thickest along the coastline, thinning the further inland,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “We should avoid detection if we skirt the border with Felwood, but not too high up the mountains. The Slayer and her kin have yet to wholly purge Felwood of its infestations; we do not want the attention of Legion remnants either.”

Jaina thought back to the Pact council, realising it wasn’t the Slayer, Sal’rasi Bloodmoon, who sat at the table but her second, a blood elf woman known as Aliradra if memory served. “Is she here as well, with the Battlelord?”

Kaellarin smiled sourly, her nose wrinkling. “Yes, I could sense her like a brand. She appears to be giving the faceless ones something to think about, that should draw more attention from _our_ approach.”

Taking a breath, Jaina looked at Sylvanas, and they shared a determined nod before they turned as one to [address the squadron.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9VY_5VIJAF8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wiggles old god tentacles*


	8. So Burns the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squadron presses on into Darkshore and bears witness to atrocity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, blood, body horror.

They travelled north, skirting quickly along the cliffs splitting Darkshore from Felwood, avoiding both the baleful eyes of demons and their wastrels and the bottomless gaze of sea-dwelling horrors. There was a terrible stillness to the land, even at night, and with each passing moment Jaina expected something to burst from the dark, silent forest and throw the squadron into chaos, but it never did.

They reached the restless, churning waters of the Maw without incident and banked north-west, following the saltwater rapids feeding into it.

The full moon hung bright and shining, illuminating the shadow of Teldrassil’s immense bulk as it stretched up from the sea beyond Lor’danel, lined with soft lights from the misty canopy all the way down to the titanic roots, clustering around villages and towns. Some lived entirely suspended between immense branches, others were built into hollows and tunnels gently coaxed into the World Tree’s flesh by druids, and more still were content to live down in ports like Rut’theran.

It was an island lifted from the water, held aloft in the heavens far from anything that could threaten Elune’s children, and all but impossible to siege. They had everything they could ever need to hold out indefinitely, even Garrosh had known that, resorting to subterfuge instead of brute force.

She tried to stifle the swell of bitterness in her gut.

The clashing of weapons and the wet, warbling cries of seaborne horrors caused them to land quickly and quietly.

Everyone made short work of unhitching and settling their steeds in the underbrush, and Jaina kept her flight goggles on, grateful for the night vision enchantment.

Sylvanas strapped the horn to her hip and kept Deathwhisper in hand, ears pricked to listen.

When Sylvanas glanced at her, Jaina nodded and pulled her hood up, falling into step with the Banshee and her rangers.

The squadron skulked towards Lor’danel, spreading out in eight pre-determined groups with magic users and ranged forces kept behind their melee-focused compatriots, until they crested a high bank on the rapids that allowed a clear view of the besieged port town.

As the Archdruid said, the bulk of the Sentinel Army in Darkshore had fallen back to Lor’danel. They fought ferociously, with bared fangs and bellowing war cries, pushing back against a writhing, oily mass of aberrations that ringed the town. The bridges were slick with black and violet blood alike, and the pulpy crunch of a towering n’raqi taking a launched glaive to the skull only added to the countless bodies lining them.

The groaning timber of war ancients cut through the roiling chorus of anger and pain, their towering, tree-like bodies crashing through the faceless masses like battering rams.

Dark ichor stained the banks of the rapids where slain faceless ones had fallen down, their bodies beginning to choke the flow of water and turn the foaming whitewater a sickly shade of purple.

The thick, choking smell of it reminded Jaina of an oil spill.

Tyrande could be seen commanding with iron-clad resolve behind the Sentinel lines, battered and bloody but standing tall and resilient, firing on the encroaching masses with arrows that blazed like stars and exploded in a shower of silver fire on impact.

A flare of acidic green drew Jaina’s attention to the smaller, western bridge, where a winged, violet figure soared between the trees and smashed down amongst a pack of k’thir with a burst of fel fire. The Slayer was absolutely _drenched_ in aberrant gore and made short work of their spindly bodies, the black blades of her glaives carving them open as if they were made of gelatine.

With their groups in position, Sylvanas gave the signal to attack.

A maelstrom of scents and energies burst across the night air, chained lightning strikes and earth elementals, pillars of moonfire and crushing vines, bolts of frostfire and arcane lances, corrosive bursts of chaotic power and the creeping afflictions that followed, and the searing, purifying burn of holy convictions. Their combined force slammed into the faceless assault like the fist of an angry god.

Unprepared and wholly taken by surprise, the faceless assault jarred as it was caught between the ambush and the Sentinel forces. A ripple of excited, angry bellows shot through Lor’danel’s defenders, and they laid into their enemies with renewed vigour.

The faceless ones quickly buckled, peeling away as those that could jumped into the rapids to escape, vanishing beneath the churning waters. Many took arrows to their backs, sending their limp bodies tumbling lifelessly after their wretched fellows.

Jaina made a point to avoid breathing through her nose as she took in the quieting scene. At a glance, she saw more faceless corpses than kaldorei, a fact in which she took a grim comfort.

She fell into step with Sylvanas and crossed the western bridge into Lor’danel while the rest of the squadron took up defensive positions around the edge of the town, checking faceless corpses to make sure the damned things were dead.

Wary Sentinels moved to bar their way, and Sylvanas stopped, slowly sliding Deathwhisper over her back.

“We’re here to help,” said Jaina, stepping slightly in front of her with a hand raised in placation.

Hard silver eyes flicked from her to the Warchief behind her and back, but the Sentinels did not move until Tyrande approached with Maiev Shadowsong and the missing Battlelord in tow, all of them bloodied by the fight but sporting only minor wounds.

The look on Tyrande’s face was tense, her jaw hard and ears high, but at least it wasn’t outright hostility. She knew allies when she saw them, even if the shape of those allies would take some getting used to.

“High Priestess, you have a lot of people worried,” said Sylvanas lightly, clasping her hands behind her back. She tilted her head. “We thought you might need help.”

“We were holding,” Tyrande replied evenly, her jaw flexing before she added, “but your assistance is appreciated… Warchief. In truth, we did not expect to receive aid this quickly.”

“The High King and I came to the agreement that expediency was paramount, and with the Horde far closer to your territory than the rest of the Alliance, well, the treaty had to amount to something, didn’t it?”

“That it did.”

“What can you tell us?”

Tyrande sighed heavily and waved off the Sentinels around them. “See to the wounded,” she said, before turning with a gesture to follow her.

As soon as the Sentinels backed off, the squadron moved to integrate and those with healing magic hurried to do their part.

The Farseer, a burly black bull by the name of Marahdo Thunderhorn, accosted the Battlelord in a bear hug, at which she only slightly squirmed, her ragged ears going flat.

“Hold still,” he grunted upon setting her down, glowing water sliding over his hands like a second skin, “and _don’t_ say you aren’t hurt.”

The Battlelord’s helmeted head tilted in what could only be a rolling of the eyes, but she remained still as commanded and allowed the tauren to heal her.

Jaina smiled a little at the exchange and hurried to follow the High Priestess, quickly removing her flight goggles. She tucked them away in a belt pouch.

Tyrande led them deeper into Lor’danel, passed the sprawling cabins, tree houses, and shops completely overtaken by the military presence. Not a single civilian remained in the town, and Tyrande explained as they went that almost every non-combatant had been evacuated to Teldrassil. A minimal contingent of Sentinels and Watchers kept the peace in Darnassus, but otherwise, all available fighting forces were focused in Lor’danel.

The flood of refugees became a trickle by the end of the first night.

They stopped at the moon well in the centre of Lor’danel, where priestesses in silvery mail armour took bowls of the holy water to heal the wounded.

Sylvanas asked, “A Captain Summermoon informed us that fear seems to be the catalyst, have you found the same?”

Tyrande’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yes, before the shroud fell there were _outbursts_ ,” she said stiffly, looking at Maiev.

“Violent bouts of mania triggered by N’Zoth’s agents, those most afraid are prone to breaking first,” said the Warden, her expression entirely hidden by the owlish visage of her helmet but her voice coming out as if through clenched teeth, low and grating.

Jaina had only a passing familiarity with Warden Shadowsong, knowing her only from reports, and was not entirely sure how to feel around someone who radiated such implacable energy.

Shaking the thought away, Jaina leaned on her staff. “Our mages couldn’t detect the portal anchors, did something happen to them?”

The Warden’s silver eyes turned on her like knife points. “Agents broke the anchors and murdered the mages responsible for their maintenance,” she said, “along with two dozen civilians and Sentinels before my people could get it under control. The Sisterhood has done what it can to bolster those most at risk.”

The tone of resentment in Maiev’s voice was a familiar one, the self-loathing of a duty-bound individual in the face of failure, real or perceived.

Jaina frowned. “I knew there were few mages in Darnassus, but was there really no one else who could open escape routes?”

Tyrande grimaced, her ears tilting back. “We were discussing evacuation to Moonglade before this latest attack. Teldrassil may be unassailable by mundane means but this _internal_ strife is another matter entirely.”

Fixing her with an even look, Sylvanas asked, “And where is the Archdruid in all this?”

A distant expression fell over Tyrande, thousands of years of practice staring into an eternity of watchful protection rendering her absolutely stone-faced as she said, far too calmly, “He is missing."

Jaina’s heart sank.

Looking into the teal glow of the moon well, Tyrande's throat worked for a second before her face settled into a reserved look. “I thank you for the reprieve, we should—” and the details of what she said dropped away as a sudden shift in the wind stole all of Jaina’s attention.

It wasn’t a breeze or a change in temperature, it was something deeper than that, like a subtle riptide pulling at the back of her thoughts, drawing her eyes passed Tyrande and out to sea. She saw something move on the dark horizon, a strange, glowing swell in the water just south-east of Teldrassil’s base, accompanied by a fast-moving storm front that Jaina recognised all too quickly as unnatural.

She pushed between a bewildered Tyrande and Maiev, weaving through throngs of tired Sentinels and agitated nightsabers until she reached the steps of the hippogryph landing at the northern edge of town.

Sylvanas called after her, “Proudmoore!”

Jaina took the steps two at a time and ran across the wide-open space of the landing to stare across the strait between Lor’danel and Teldrassil, where the swell was only growing.

The clouds sweeping in from the north-west smothered the stars, lit by the shining moon and the flash of violet lightning in their depths.

A distorted, echoing thunder followed only seconds later.

The rush of boots and armour sounded behind her, but Jaina couldn’t take her eyes off the water. It bulged and broke, and the lightning flashed again, illuminating a terrible shape emerging from the sea, gargantuan and glittering with gilded scales. An elegant crown of spines and fins topped the head, with a mane of ghostly white tendrils curling and writhing behind it, seeking prey, a neck to snap or lungs to smother.

Four long, golden javelins streaked with shining blue lift from the waves, held aloft by four muscular arms attached to a powerful and distinctly feminine body, haloed by the glow of unrestrained and terrifyingly potent magic.

The smell of aged ambergris and crude oil hit a second later. Jaina shuddered, transfixed by an eldritch figure that bled arcane power so strong it briefly reminded her of the split-second the mana bomb hit her through the portal, open and exposed despite Rhonin’s best efforts.

Over the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears, Jaina almost didn’t hear Tyrande whisper;

“Azshara.”

The water below the landing erupted with motion, followed by a chorus of hissing and seething screams.

Someone bellowed, ‘naga!’

“Behold the end of the kaldorei!” Azshara’s projected voice felt like a crown of nails driven into her skull, and Jaina flinched, watching as with a great, echoing cackle Azshara reared back and slammed the azerite javelins into Teldrassil, sinking them deep into the flesh of the World Tree.

The storm clouds curled and twisted behind her, a vortex of raw, crackling power woven into being by the most powerful mage to have ever existed in all of Azeroth’s history. Azshara lifted all her arms, claws glowing with a second skin of arcane, and the air shattered as thick bands of lightning jumped from the storm to the javelins, and straight into the World Tree.

Jaina’s breath froze in her chest.

There was a blinding flash, then a deafening staccato of explosions as four colossal, flaming _rents_ were torn up Teldrassil’s entire mountainous length from each javelin. Another flash, another explosion, and more followed one after another, cracking through the World Tree’s blessed flesh like it was nothing, raining chunks of bark and shattered wood into the ocean like boulders from a landslide. Hungry, unnatural flames burst to life across the tree, seething from a rapidly growing spider web of cracks. Another explosion shattered one of the towns suspended on the cusp of the canopy, sending it and all its inhabitants tumbling aflame into the sea.

Tyrande made a sound Jaina wished she didn’t recognise, deep and ragged, like the howl of a wounded animal in the sheer breadth and force of it.

Even as explosions continued rocking Teldrassil, a strange and smothering stillness fell over them all, a gathering tension that pulled in and in and _in_ until Jaina felt as though she would be crushed by it.

Her eyes were drawn to the moon as all the stars in the sky seemed to blink out in a solid black canvas against its brilliance.

She nearly fell to her knees when the tension snapped, and a bolt of pure, incandescent moonlight lanced down from the sky and slammed into Azshara’s face with the force of a comet. A heavy, ugly _crunch_ sounded as the Naga Queen’s head snapped back, her entire body reeling with the hit as a copious shower of blood and scales sprayed through the air and rained into the ocean.

Azshara _howled_ , in pain, outrage, or both, and she collapsed back into the sea, hands cradling the gory, smoking mess of her face.

Jaina felt the pressure lift, the smothering fog that gnawed at the minds of the unprotected—it was Azshara’s doing. But she could take no comfort in that.

Azshara’s javelins remained lodged in the tree.

It was still burning.

Teldrassil was _burning_.

* * *

It was as close to a catastrophe as Sylvanas could think of, a crisis by _any_ sane measure, so she pulled the horn from her hip and brought it to her lips.

Crafted from the horn of an ancient storm drake, it was reinforced with bands of ghostly silver. She blew through it and ice green runes burned to life along its surface, white mist bleeding from the silver. Despite the chaos of battle surrounding them, the sound of the horn cut through it all like a scythe through wheat, and the smell of wormwood and apple blossoms flooded the air.

For the briefest moment an ethereal hand touched her shoulder, as steady as a glacier, carrying with it an unbreakable assurance and the understanding of a kindred spirit.

A singular star burned to life in the blackened night sky, followed by a shaft of golden light that hit the sea just beyond Lor’danel. A stream of gold and silver flares streaked down its length like falling stars until they split apart at the last moment, wings unfurling, spears flashing, a thousand strong.

The val’kyr slammed into the naga like eagles tearing salmon from the river and Eyir led them, resplendent and ferocious, the whirling of her golden halberd quickly clouding the surf red with naga blood.

The snakes were tenacious and fought viciously, but with the unpredictable arrival of the val’kyr, their attack became as desperate as the faceless assault. Pinned between two armies, they were quickly decimated, forcing them to flee or die.

With Azshara gone for the moment and the naga retreating, all attention turned to the growing pyre of Teldrassil.

Roared commands became mass teleports that brought them up to Darnassus and the absolute chaos unfolding there.

The smell of burning skin and hair hit first, already thick in the air, as was the smell of blood, and screaming came from all directions, it was a maelstrom of pain and fear that dragged at memories Sylvanas strangled into silence.

There was a time when she studied maps of Alliance cities for the eventualities of war, learning their layouts, their weaknesses, for the express purpose of invasion should it come to that. Now, she commanded her forces through Darnassus to _save_ its people.

The Temple of the Moon and the Warrior’s Terrace were the safest locations to evacuate to, their stony structures providing the barest modicum of shelter from the rapidly spreading fires, and so they split their efforts between the two to cover more ground.

Sylvanas took the bridge to the temple with Jaina at her side, ordering Eyir and the val’kyr to carry people to safety, their cacophonous wing beats displacing the air in gusts of ash and embers, cutting through the smoke like fog lights. The mixed Horde and Pact forces spread out to keep the way clear, with many of the latter running off to sweep the housing districts.

Amid the flames, creatures emerged from the central lake, covered in water weeds and barnacles, stilted and staggering things that only _resembled_ kaldorei, infested with sea worms and parasitic crustaceans. They appeared sluggish and weak at first and lunged into a frenetic, juddering dash once their rolling eyes fixed on a fleeing civilian, wailing like mournful children as they did so.

Sylvanas focused fire on them and her rangers followed suit, standing on the edges of the bridge to better see and stay out of the way.

Through the roar of the flames and the frightened cries of kaldorei, Sylvanas exerted her powers to make her voice heard clearly over the din, guiding terrified civilians to the temple.

Arcane winds kicked up along the bridge, pushing back against the heat and ash in the air to open a breathable corridor. The smell of samphire and sea breeze came with it, and she spared a glance to see Jaina with hands frosted over and eyes burning white.

Jaina nodded at her grimly, and she returned the gesture, focusing her attention on keeping those _creatures_ at bay while Jaina kept their immediate surroundings liveable.

Most of the civilians were kaldorei as expected, but true to Genn’s concerns a significant number of gilneans still called Teldrassil home. Some of them startled when they saw her, some passed with confused or angry eyes, but most were just afraid. Afraid of death, of losing their home again—at least this time she wasn’t the one tearing it from them.

Druids opened escape paths to Moonglade. The shamans among them worked to turn the wind and water against the flame, clearing escape routes to the temple and the terrace where portals were being opened to almost every major city, anywhere that _wasn’t_ here. Those who couldn’t provide escape worked to guide people to safety throughout Darnassus or fought to protect them from the creatures wearing the bodies of their loved ones.

They were doing all they could, but with a hard, tight sensation settling in her gut, Sylvanas knew they did not have nearly enough time to get everyone out. Not so suddenly, not with so little preparation, and not with such unnaturally prolific flames jumping across the boughs and cracking from the ground like writhing, living things.

The lake exploded next to them, spraying water and oily ichor as a large faceless one landed with a crack on the temple bridge between her and Jaina.

Sylvanas barely had enough time to fling herself backwards to avoid being swatted by a heavy tentacle. She tipped over the edge of the bridge and took to her shadow form, soaring above it and landing on the grand archway overhead.

Civilians shrieked below as the creature swung for them, only for its attack to be blocked by a spiked barricade of ice, tearing the hide off its arm in a ragged degloving.

Black blood lashed across the masonry, and it whirled on Jaina, who bristled with magic, glowing blue runes banding her arms and hands, fingers curved like claws and teeth bared in a snarl.

Aiming between the thing’s shoulders, Sylvanas loosed an exploding black arrow that impacted like a cannonball with a sickening crunch.

Necrotic smoke washed over it, and the aberration fell to one knee, sputtering thick, bloody phlegm. Ichor dripped from the rotting crater in its back. It could not react in time to avoid the ten-foot ice lance Jaina launched into its face, impaling it through one of its eyes and out of the back of its skull in a burst of oily gore. It slumped to the ground with a shuddering flail, foul blood spreading fast across the stone.

Jaina swept her frost-coated hands in a long, curving motion, causing water from the lake to stretch up to the bridge, the surface cracking with a thin layer of ice that rolled, froze, and cracked again, and used it to wash the body over the edge.

A heavy splash followed.

White eyes flicked up to her and Sylvanas jumped down, shadows bleeding from her body for the half-second before she landed with a grunt.

“Well done,” she muttered, eyeing the burning city as a terrible, wooden groan hit the air.

One of the towering redwoods dotted around the city, carved and shaped through nature magic to serve as apartments, buckled and twisted. A point of tension low on the trunk let out a loud crunch and all one-hundred and fifty feet of it swept down in a great rush of air, its bulk crashing to the ground and flattening the fire-warped buildings beneath it. Dirt and ashes plumed, clouding the area.

There were many more like it, turning into pillars of fire and death one after the other.

Flashes of fel green cut through the red haze in regular intervals, the Slayer at work, and Sylvanas could not help but wonder where the Battlelord was in the chaos. Something twisted in her gut but she remained where she was, continuing to usher the endless stream of civilians up to the temple.

If not for the Battlelord choosing to trust her, the forsaken would still be damned to an unjust fate. It would not _do_ for the Battlelord to fall here, so though she did not move, she called out to the one of the passing val’kyr to ensure the Battlelord’s safety.

They had to know where to find her, tethered to the Halls of Valour and Helya’s ever-watching eyes as she was.

The flames only worsened with each passing moment, and smoke and embers swallowed visibility just as quick. Sylvanas noted that more and more of the people running by bore wounds from the heat than creatures, many more were coughing, gratefully breathing the clear air Jaina maintained.

Flares of spontaneous combustion drew Sylvanas’s eyes. The ambient heat was reaching a critical point. She ground her teeth and chanced a look over the side of the bridge to see patches of simmering water—the lake was starting to _boil_.

Clenching her hands, Sylvanas looked at Jaina and noticed sweat dripping down her face and off her chin, causing strands of hair to stick to her brow and cheeks. Keeping the rapidly growing heat and smoke at bay was taking its toll even on Jaina’s staggering reserves.

Sylvanas opened her mouth, and it felt like the entire world _heaved_ like a temperamental ox as a long, sputtering fissure of coiling flame split the island on the far side of the bridge, all but cracking the bank in half with a terrible rip of wood. Water from the lake rushed in and was almost immediately evaporated or boiled by the escaping heat, spitting and hissing.

Sylvanas bellowed, "fall back to the temple!"

The Horde and Pact forces gratefully withdrew up the bridge, every one of them smeared in grey and sporting burns from the heat.

The flow of survivors dwindled to a paltry trickle, most of them severely wounded and carried by others, but she could still hear screaming and plenty of it. People trapped by fallen buildings, or the fire itself, or corralled by monsters, and people who simply could not cross the burning ground to reach safety—there were too many voices still crying out to be saved.

An icy, crawling sensation skittered across the back of her neck, and the hint of an all too familiar voice at the edge of her hearing made her stomach drop, only to immediately harden as she bared her fangs against the _temerity_ of this creature for even daring. It was just the manipulation of an Old God, but even the vague threat of _that voice_ in her ears still elicited a reaction in her, and _that_ made her want to tear that ancient, unfathomable creature limb from limb like she would any helpless _prey_.

Jaina startled in her periphery and Sylvanas looked at her to see her eyes briefly lose focus as if she wasn’t looking at Darnassus but something else entirely, a shape in the whirling smoke and embers.

Sylvanas followed her line of sight to the end of the bridge, and for just a moment, she saw the shadow of a skeletal horse, its long-haired rider, and the outline of a familiar blade.

She instinctively recoiled, only for the shadow to burst as a completely different shape emerged from the thick smoke and onto the tepid air of the bridge.

The Slayer in metamorphosis, her form trailing smoke, covered in burns and slashes from blade and claw alike. She stumbled upon hitting the clear air and nearly fell to her knees. The Battlelord was limp in her arms, and she approached quickly, clawed feet caked with grey muck.

It was clear the Battlelord had been neck-deep in enemies and rescue efforts alike, covered in blood and ashes equally, and she took a wheezing, gasping breath in the clean air.

“Lady Proudmoore, Warchief,” Sal’rasi rasped, her body shrinking back to its normal proportions, for a given value of normal when it came to demon hunters. She was easily bigger than all of them, the physical aspects of a devoured Wrathguard prominent in her mutated form. Even then, Sylvanas could still recognise the defeated cant of the Slayer’s long ears. “There are too many,” she said, wings all but limp with the slack curve of her shoulders.

The ground shuddered again with such a colossal groan that it vibrated up her legs and into her chest, and Sylvanas stared passed Sal’rasi to towering columns of fire, barely able to differentiate them through the scarlet haze.

Whether the Slayer meant too many to save or to fight, or both, the damage was spreading too quickly. Those still left would flee any way they could, even if it was to cling to the farthest branches and pray, or to fling themselves from the canopy rather than burn to death.

The val’kyr continued to do what they could, but with no sign of anyone else making it to the bridge under their own power, Sylvanas looked at Jaina to find her grave expression mirrored back at her.

Jaina hissed a curse under her breath and looked down, releasing her magic until the corridor shrank to a localised bubble around them. She turned, and they all hurried to the temple, the white marble beneath them smeared almost black with thousands of ashen footprints.

The temple interior was only slightly cooler than the blistering outside as Jaina let go of her spell completely.

“There are no more?” Tyrande asked hoarsely. Her robes were stained grey, ashes painting her arms from the elbows down, and the skin of her face and shoulders had deepened in colour with burns, desperately fighting through the heat to save her people until it was physically impossible to stay.

There were no refugees left in the temple, just those holding the portals open, Tyrande, Maiev, and another Watcher Sylvanas did not know the name of, standing on a half-burned prosthetic of living wood.

Those at the terrace had long since retreated through their portals, and Sylvanas noted with a glance at Orgrimmar and Suramar that the squadron had fully retreated. They would need to retrieve their beasts, a concern for later.

Sylvanas did not bother to look at the entrance, knowing all she would see was fire and aberrations engulfing a city that should have been unassailable and pushed all thoughts of Quel’thalas as far from her mind as she could.

She slowly slipped Deathwhisper onto her back and shook her head. “None that we can _reach_ , High Priestess,” she said, not unkindly, “and we are out of time.”

Tyrande closed her eyes, pain creasing every inch of her face in a mask of barely restrained heartbreak.

Maiev and her Watcher remained impassive in their armour, if not their lowered shoulders and the dip of their heads.

Glancing to her right, Sylvanas found Sal’rasi staring out of the temple with the Battlelord still in her arms. “Take her to Suramar,” she said firmly, “or the First Arcanist will tie herself in knots.”

Sal’rasi sighed deeply but did not argue and stepped through the portal to the Broken Isles.

Jaina stood quietly to her left, both of them lingering, unwilling to look at the dying city but unwilling to admit defeat. Still, even within the cool depths of the temple, the heat climbed inexorably towards an unbearable high.

Sylvanas met Jaina’s eyes again, seeking _what_ she couldn’t articulate, but Jaina simply gave her the barest nod of understanding, and it was enough.

They had done all they could.

One by one, they left, reluctance slowing their steps, grimly hoping that at the last moment someone else would make it, but the inferno answered only with the roar of the fire and the screams of all those who could not be saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Sylvanas and Teldrassil, but the most important one is that Blizzard can kiss my ass.


	9. In Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Teldrassil's fall, Jaina can't help but think about the past and makes a decision for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.  
> 

Relief efforts and heated talks crowded the weeks following Teldrassil’s fall, endless reports streaming from one corner of Azeroth to the next as they scoured the seas for signs of Azshara only to find nothing.

Sylvanas had seen the inside of the Suramar embassy more times in the last fortnight than she had in the previous six months. It was a constant flood of activity that exhausted not her body but her mind, and it was enough to make her _finally_ snap back at Genn during the latest such meeting after one too many inflammatory insinuations about her conduct.

He could not insinuate anything about Teldrassil itself. The kaldorei saw exactly what she did. Her efforts to save as many lives as possible could not be denied, not with tens of thousands of witnesses and the High Priestess’s word, and so he went after other things.

The Horde had relinquished Ashenvale in return for fair trade in lumber, which was _not_ changing just because Horde forces were moving through the area to _support_ the Sentinel Army in securing it.

No, she did not have plans to wrest control of the region while the kaldorei struggled to stay on their feet.

No, neither she nor the Pact—for the Pact was partly made up of Horde members and deserved just as much suspicion—had anything else to report regarding Azshara or N’Zoth.

Neither, as it happened, did the Alliance. _They_ weren’t coming forward with any new information, but she didn’t see fit to rake Anduin over the coals for it. She knew as well as he did that the depths of the ocean were a vast and unfamiliar territory that precious few of them could hope to adequately search. They were hopelessly ill-equipped for such ventures; Vashj’ir had been a shining example of that, which both sides tried to avoid repeating.

That inability to effectively retaliate made her skin itch.

If not for the ash fall sweeping across northern Kalimdor and the throngs of refugees yet to move on from Orgrimmar, one could imagine the attack hadn’t happened. There was no follow-up, no attempt to hold the area, no simultaneous strike against Stormwind or Suramar, or any other ocean adjacent population centre that they had heard of—just Teldrassil.

Just the kaldorei.

And they didn’t have a damned clue as to why, except speculation that Azshara was simply vindictive and opportunistic. Beyond _that_ , all they had left to investigate were the strange incidents that had grown more widespread since the attack.

They didn’t even have reports from Zandalar to compare to—the High Lord and the Grandmaster had fallen silent after their latest status update indicated the civil unrest had exploded into a coup attempt.

Not that any of that satisfied Genn, nothing ever would, but Anduin was at least getting better at reining him in.

She suspected that at this point, Anduin kept Genn at his side just to keep an eye on him, or he would almost certainly fall in with the kind of short-sightedness that led to fools like the Blood of Wrynn.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had already, but she knew that was wishful thinking more than anything else, an excuse to be rid of the old wolf.

The skies over Orgrimmar were a garish, hazy red, and Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at the layer of ash that turned the crimson rooftops and orange plateaus a miserable grey. Routine sweeping and shovelling kept the streets traversable, and most had quickly taken to wearing cloaks to keep the ash off the rest of their clothes. Still, they needed more efficient solutions while waiting for Teldrassil’s titanic bulk to slowly reduce down to embers. As awe-inspiring as it had been, it was now just a _mountain_ of raw fuel, and the estimates for how long it would burn were not in the least bit comfortable to consider.

There were only a few places left in Kalimdor where one could see a clear sky, and that would almost certainly change as ash spread through the weather systems.

From the top of Grommash Hold, she watched a small grouping of kaldorei prepare for the journey to Hyjal, the last secure portion of their ancient homelands since the defeat of Ragnaros and, crucially, as far from the ocean as they could possibly get.

A small child in the group stared curiously at every passer-by, clutching a moonkin doll to their chest, little ears swivelling this way and that.

The Valley of Strength was almost always buzzing with activity as people went about their business, buying or selling at the markets, looking for a place to eat, or just passing through on their way to or from the Pathfinder’s Den. Seeing so many different faces had to be a novelty, and the child’s guardians did not seem to correct that curiosity.

 _Genuine acceptance or a stressed oversight?_ Sylvanas wondered and just as quickly dismissed. They would move on soon enough and be among their own people again.

Those curious little eyes lifted high enough to land on her, and Sylvanas stepped back from the edge and out of sight, clenching her jaw.

She closed her eyes and focused inward, reaching for an otherwise imperceptible tether. Undisturbed, it was like a thread of spider silk, almost impossible to see until it caught the light, but once she touched it, it became as solid and unbreakable as a bridge of pure elementium.

The image of an orchard came to her mind, misty with fog from the surrounding ocean. Each tree bore shining black apples haloed by a ghostly silver glow, and while they were not arranged in neat rows, each tree was the same exact distance from the next. Basalt monoliths ringed the island upon which the orchard took root, carved with the truth of things, Odyn’s arrogance and cruelty, Helya’s fall, all the terrible things she did in her pursuit of vengeance laid bare, and her ascension in the wake of his death. The last and most recent images were that of the Forsaken, the sky above them filled with countless val’kyr.

 _‘How many did they save?’_ she asked in her mind, silent to all but Helya.

It was not the first time she had asked, but she wanted it to be the last. She _wanted_ to stop thinking about it, to stop feeling as if she had somehow failed all over again. The kaldorei were _not_ her people. The sight of their home besieged by monsters and fire should not have lingered for so long, and yet she could not escape those thoughts.

The feeling of being watched washed over her, but it was so utterly different from _his_ presence, immovably calm and kind in a way she had yet to grow accustomed to, for Sylvanas did not make a habit of talking to Helya despite the convenience of it. It would be so easy to make a habit of it, a crutch, pestering—pitiful.

She felt Helya’s gentle admonishment and winced. Reaching out opened her to the Titan’s senses in more ways than one, another reason to avoid such conversations.

Helya _never_ initiated them. She always waited, watchful and patient, until Sylvanas was ready.

 _‘No number will make this easier,’_ came that steady glacier of a voice. _‘For them or for you. Even one life left behind is one too many for those who lose them. You know this. You’ve known this ever since—’_

Sylvanas ground her teeth and dropped the connection, letting it sink back into comforting obscurity until she chose to dig it up again. The orchard vanished from her thoughts, and she opened her eyes, the sounds of Orgrimmar coming back to her.

Ever since _minn’da_ —Lireesa was the only casualty of that Amani ambush, and it felt like the world fell out from under Sylvanas when news of it reached her.

Unclenching her hands, Sylvanas stepped up to the railing to peer into the valley again.

The kaldorei had moved on.

A rhythmic tapping and footsteps made her glance aside to see Jaina joining her atop the Hold, hood up to keep the ash from settling in her hair. She said nothing in greeting and simply stared down into the valley, tucking her staff against her body in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the child with their doll.

Sylvanas tried to ignore the twisting in her stomach. Jaina had been acting quiet and distant since Teldrassil as if trapped in her thoughts. On the one hand, it meant she hadn’t tried to ask Sylvanas about Icecrown again.

If Anya hadn’t interrupted them, Sylvanas was almost certain she would have fled the room, and that would have been absolutely pathetic, running from something that should have been easy to deal with. It should have been _easy_ to lie again, to pull up her walls and keep Jaina out. It would have been the _correct_ thing to do.

She had already hurt Jaina once, and for that, she deserved only her obligations and the cold certainty of oblivion when her presence was no longer necessary.

On the other hand, the silence made Sylvanas just as nervous, and damn her heart, she could not help but _want_ to reach out even though it wasn’t her place to.

Jaina had always deserved better than the world ever gave her.

Quietly dreading what would come of it, Sylvanas took a habitual breath and asked, “I thought you might be lost forever in those thoughts of yours. Where have you been?”

“Stuck in the past, where else would I be?” The exhaustion in her voice was not a physical kind, but the type of tiredness Sylvanas recognised entirely too well. “I feel like I’ve been running for years.”

Sylvanas looked at her side-long. “Everyone is running from something, Proudmoore,” she said quietly, “what are you?”

“Home. I’ve thought about going home so many times, and just as many times, I talk myself out of it because there’s nothing to gain. I’d just be opening old wounds, and I always had some _other_ responsibility to consider. But now I can’t think about anything else.”

“You worry about them.”

Jaina frowned. “I never stopped caring. I know that sounds strange to say, but I have _always_ cared about my people even when I…” her voice caught, and her mouth snapped shut.

Sylvanas finished for her in a firm voice. “When you did what was necessary _at the time_.”

A soft, bitter laugh shuddered out of Jaina. “And look what that got me.”

Wincing, Sylvanas looked away. Part of her wanted to tell Jaina that she argued against it, that she tried to reason with Garrosh on strategy and tactics, things she foolishly assumed he would care about more as a military creature than he would about the sheer barbarism of the attack.

If anything, the indiscriminate nature of it only made it better for him. He believed it would shock the Alliance into submission, that even if they didn’t immediately surrender, it meant they would fight in pain, hobbled and bleeding.

He was wrong—he was wrong about so many things, and she could do nothing but plaintively snarl at select moments, her hands all but tied behind her back while his Kor’kron brutes prowled the Undercity waiting for an excuse to exterminate her people.

And she almost cracked, almost risked their safety where it was erroneously reported that Jaina had perished along with so many others, if not for the intervention of her rangers.

She could do nothing but obey, even if it meant throwing her people into a meat grinder of a war or else lose them _all_.

At times, she almost regretted burning Putress’s lab and purging all his accursed research notes, but no. The Blight was a tainted thing, not a weapon against the Lich King but a symbol of how dangerous and _untrustworthy_ the Forsaken were, how much like the _Scourge_ they still were in the eyes of the living, all thanks to Putress and his wretched accomplices.

Putress nearly undid them all in his hatred, and she could not regret cleansing all traces of his work and influence, not when the living could be felled by far simpler substances that did not carry his stain.

Still, she lost so many, _too_ many, before Garrosh finally pushed the world too far.

Sylvanas swallowed hard against the wail bubbling in her throat. She hoped Garrosh was keeping Arthas in absolutely miserable company.

However, knowing any of that made no difference to what happened, so she said none of it. Instead, she kept her voice low and firm as she said, “You aren’t one to sit on your hands, Proudmoore. What are you planning?”

“Kul Tiras is the next easiest target for Azshara and her master I can think of. I need to go home. I need to fix it. I need them to be okay.”

“And if you cannot?”

There was a sharp inhale at that, and Jaina’s jaw flexed. She ground out, “I will _make_ it okay. Either they work with us, all of us, or they’re going to drown. The Zandalari are a powerful people, experienced with the sea, and even they are suffering. I _want_ to believe Kul Tiras is absolutely fine, but that’s a fantasy.”

“We should discuss this with Anduin, if only to better plan this.”

“I was counting on that.”

* * *

They met in Suramar the following night for a scheduled talk, and it was the first time the Battlelord was present for one since Teldrassil. The great warrior sat out of her armour, and though the simple shirt and surcoat she wore should have rendered her less impressive, it was offset by her eyes.

She wasn’t wearing her blindfold anymore, staring at each of them with black, starry eyes and pupils like full moons, a heavy, infinite stare that most did not feel up to holding for longer than a few seconds. Not a new development as Sylvanas understood it, but going without her blindfold certainly was.

Keleria spoke little and kept idly toying with the amulet around her neck, a shining disk of glittering blue and amber, like gold dust and ground sapphire, swirled together and frozen. Pure azerite, embedded in titanium, a sibling to the ones now worn by each of the Pact Council.

A gift from Azeroth to Her most promising children, those She deemed most able to save Her.

Once the meeting adjourned, Sylvanas stopped Anduin from leaving with a raised hand, and he settled back into his seat, expectant.

Genn’s shoulders hunched, and Nathanos cocked his head, both men resembling equally confused hounds in their respective gestures.

Noticing there was still something to be discussed between the Horde and Alliance, Thalyssra sank back into her seat as well, ever the neutral arbiter in these talks.

The Battlelord did not move, tethered to the First Arcanist like a ship in safe harbour.

“There is something more?” Thalyssra inquired.

Sylvanas looked at Jaina and canted her head.

“I mean to approach Kul Tiras and convince them that working with the Alliance _and_ the Horde is their best chance for the future.”

A choked, disbelieving noise escaped Genn’s throat, and Anduin blinked, staring at Jaina with an open mouth and raised brows as he floundered for something to say.

“You cannot be serious,” said Genn, beating him to it. “You’re the reason they left the Alliance, Jaina. They’ll never agree to work with us again, let alone the _Horde_ **.** ”

Sylvanas had agreed to let Jaina handle it. She had agreed to not open her mouth and talk in Jaina’s place because it was important for Jaina to take the lead in such a personal matter. That did not mean Sylvanas refrained from vividly imagining how it would feel to lunge across the table and tear Genn’s head from his shoulders for being so callously tactless.

She let the daydream of his mangled, eyeless visage play out while Jaina stared him down. “All the more reason that I should be the one to mend that bridge. Why else would I ever return if it wasn’t the end of the world?”

 _“_ Oh, of course, if they’re terrified, they’ll definitely agree to work with old enemies. Have you given this no thought at all?”

“I’ve given it more than you will ever know. The fleet would be an immeasurable boon in securing lanes, and House Stormsong has more experience with the dark things lurking beneath the tides than any, something we are currently _not_ equipped to deal with as well as we could be. We need the _knowledge_ of Tidesages if nothing else, and I can’t provide that without convincing them to work with us.”

“Jaina,” said Anduin gently, “I agree that the aid of Kul Tiras would be invaluable. I only worry that they will be unreceptive unless the seriousness of the situation is made abundantly clear. They may not see passed their animosity to you if you venture alone.”

Sylvanas frowned at that, only to notice Anduin looking at her furtively.

No, he couldn’t _possibly_.

Jaina arched a brow. “And you would suggest what? I already planned to take Horde envoys with me.”

Anduin calmly clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “I believe the gravity of the matter would be made apparent if the Warchief herself accompanied you.”

Nathanos’s head jerked back, eyes narrowing to slits.

Genn snapped, “Are you mad?” and stared at Anduin as if the boy had sprouted three heads.

Anduin replied with a dry, “Not yet.”

As Genn continued in a sputtering, one-sided argument, Sylvanas slowly looked at Jaina from the corner of her eye to find the Archmage pointedly staring at the table, mouth pressed into a thin, tight line.

Jaina _fidgeted_ , slowly wringing her hands, and said nothing to interrupt Genn or Anduin.

Neither of them said it, even suggested it. Technically speaking, Jaina should have arranged a replacement already, temporary or otherwise, to fill her space while she was away.

‘Otherwise’ would have been the smart choice.

Jaina’s head turned just enough to meet her gaze, and Sylvanas immediately looked straight ahead, ears pinning back.

To agree with Genn Greymane on something caused her no small degree of discomfort. It was a terrible idea, borderline inflammatory, just as likely to provoke the Kul Tirans as impress upon them the seriousness of the situation.

But there was something about Jaina’s zeal that scratched at the back of her thoughts, a too familiar _eagerness_ to rush into something that could fatally backfire. It made her stomach churn to recognise it, even if she knew she couldn’t talk Jaina out of going.

It was a terrible idea, one she should soundly reject for a more impersonal one. But _that_ would mean abandoning Jaina when Jaina was the one who stood by her at Icecrown Citadel, who argued in her favour during the battle for her city, and who fought by her side every step of the way to bringing Arthas down. Who was rewarded for all of that with lies and a broken heart.

The thought of abandoning Jaina _now_ left a sour taste in her mouth and a heavy weight in her chest. She owed Jaina this and so much more, but at the very _least_ , she owed her this _._ “Very well,” she said firmly, silencing Anduin and Genn’s discussion.

Nathanos looked on the verge of a conniption.

She felt Jaina’s eyes on her, heavy and searching, and refused to meet them. “Escort and security will need to be arranged,” she said, waving dismissively, “but we discussed this beforehand.”

She turned her attention to Thalyssra and the Battlelord. “The Pact is already experienced in cooperation and presenting a unified front. I trust at least some of your people can be spared for this endeavour?”

“I will go with you myself,” said Keleria bluntly, straightening in her seat, “and I will ask the Farseer if he feels up to a diplomatic mission.”

Thalyssra’s ears shot up but quickly relaxed into a more measured look. “When do you mean to make this journey, Lady Proudmoore?”

Jaina exhaled slowly and said, “as soon as possible, but it will take at least a week to sail my ship here from Orgrimmar.”

Thalyssra nods. “Then I shall take that time to work on more immediate means of communication for the Warchief and yourself. It wouldn’t do for anything to go awry simply because you could not be reached quickly enough.”

Jaina took a breath and bowed her head. “Thank you, First Arcanist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can only end well, I'm sure.


	10. Across The Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They set sail for Kul Tiras. On the way, Jaina and Sylvanas talk about the past, and nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Blizzard, please, that's my emotional support banshee.
> 
> But really, I'm still feeling A Way™ after Blizzcon so have some passive aggressive adjustments to canon to close out the week.

Jaina sent word ahead to Kul Tiras immediately after the meeting, thoroughly explaining the state of things and outlining her reasons for approaching now. She did not expect forgiveness, but she hoped she could make it right, somehow.

The week passed by almost in a daze, taking her father’s ship, the Pride’s Call, from Bladefist Bay to Suramar so it could pick up the Pact and fresh supplies while Sylvanas prepared things for their absence back in Orgrimmar. She would entrust Baine to speak for the Horde in her stead. His reasoned and peaceful nature was well suited to upholding the treaty.

Jaina did not expect Sylvanas to come with her, but she was immeasurably relieved all the same. She expected it even less when Sylvanas all but made her promise she would not simply sail ahead to Kul Tiras. Not that she was in danger of doing so; Jaina found she was not particularly eager to press on alone for once.

The week without Sylvanas had been strange enough. During the quiet hours of the night, she would seek out the Banshee’s reserved presence out of quickly remembered habit only to remind herself that Sylvanas had not joined her for this leg of the journey and promptly chided herself for such behaviour.

It had really taken so little time for everything to come simmering back to the surface, how _flimsy_ the pretence was for it to crack under the slightest examination, and if Jaina was honest with herself, it had cracked years ago. Oh, it hurt at first, as it was meant to, but after the initial shock, her mind began to pick at Sylvanas’s words and actions, unravelling the falsehoods wrapped around them.

But she could never pinpoint _why,_ and trying to broach the subject with Sylvanas all these years later felt like opening a door she could not close even if she wanted to. She could guess Sylvanas’s reasons until she was withered and grey—she would rather know for sure before the world completely fell apart on them.

It was selfish of her, and as always, there were more important things to focus on than her feelings.

Suramar’s harbour bustled around her, thronged with ships from every corner of Azeroth, eager to take advantage of a new trading hub between the major continents. Salt crunched underfoot, spread thick across the piers to keep the ice at bay while snow fell across the city in a thin curtain.

The Battlelord and the Farseer were already aboard the Pride’s Call, talking to a team of nine on the main deck, made up of champions from each Order except for the Illidari, the Black Harvest, and the Ebon Blade. Those were considered a little too alarming to risk sending along, and the Horde members of the team were blood elves and tauren, people Kul Tiras had little to no negative associations with, at least not when it came to the Horde.

The rest of the crew were mostly human and blood elf sailors, not members of the Pact but people who were just as willing to work together when called on, quickly breaking the ice on the first night with a few bottles of exotic liquor someone brought aboard.

Jaina had been too highly strung to partake, keeping her distance, but she appreciated their willingness to move forward rather than pick at old wounds, envied it even.

The First Arcanist saw a batch of communication crystals distributed to Anduin, Sylvanas, Jaina, Nathanos, Baine, Keleria, and Marahdo. All they needed to do was trace the appropriate number, and it would connect to the corresponding crystal.

Limited, for now, but Thalyssra seemed quite confident in future iterations being invaluable.

The skies off the Broken Isles’ western coast were beginning to turn red and hazy, the maelstrom sucking in the combined ash fall before violently spewing it across the rest of Azeroth’s oceans. She wondered if any of it had made it to Kul Tiras, and darker still if there _was_ a Kul Tiras to make it to.

She shook the morbid thought away just in time to see Dark Rangers Kalira, Velonara, and Cyndia walk passed her to board the Pride’s Call, heavy satchels over their shoulders and bows in hand.

Jaina turned sharply to find Sylvanas approaching and took two steps forward before she caught herself, heart lodging in her throat.

Sylvanas’s ears lifted in a flicker of surprise, stopping abruptly at Jaina’s aborted approach with the look of someone bracing to be struck.

“You’re here,” Jaina blurted out, wincing at her own awkwardness.

Sylvanas relaxed slightly and closed the remaining distance to stand just out of arm’s reach.

“I am,” Sylvanas said lightly, clasping her hands behind her back in her usual militant stance. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“It was. What about you?”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid.”

It felt like static hung in the air between them, thick and sudden to the point that Jaina exhaled quickly and turned to face her ship. “Thank you,” she said, terser than she meant to be.

Sylvanas quietly moved to stand beside her. “You do not need to thank me,” she murmured.

Jaina opened her mouth to insist, but three pairs of hurried footfalls took her attention to Anduin, Genn, and Nathanos.

“Aunt Jaina, glad I caught you,” Anduin smiled, “I wanted to see you off if that’s not too much trouble?”

Tension bled from her shoulders a little at his earnestness, and she managed a half-smile as she turned to face him. “No, I appreciate that,” she said. “We’ll do everything we can.”

He nodded firmly, hands clasped in front of him. “I know you will. You’re the strongest mage I know, _and_ you have the Warchief at your side. You’ll be unstoppable.”

Sylvanas cocked an ear at that. “So certain of my intentions, Little Lion,” she drawled, smirking when it raised Genn’s hackles.

Anduin smiled placidly at her. “Quite.”

Jaina could almost hear Sylvanas hissing _‘spoilsport’_ in her head as the Banshee rolled her eyes, which nearly made Jaina laugh only for it to come out as a quiet huff. There was an almost _petulant_ cant to Sylvanas’s ears that she was sure at least Genn and Anduin didn’t recognise, and Nathanos was too busy glaring side-long at the former to notice it either.

Anduin offered his arms, and Jaina hesitated before she hugged him. The feeling of protective, affectionate arms wrapping tight around her made her eyes sting, and she swallowed hard, pulling away before it could overwhelm her.

With a tender smile, Anduin said, “Safe journey, we’ll keep it together until you return, promise.”

 _“Safe travels, Dark Lady,”_ said Nathanos, in perfect thalassian.

Sylvanas canted her head, and with a shared look, they turned as one to board the Pride’s Call.

* * *

Sylvanas never particularly enjoyed sailing. In life, the constant motion under her feet frequently made her ill, and while the nausea wasn’t a problem anymore, the lack of solid ground left her feeling unsteady all the same.

Nonetheless, she could appreciate that the Pride’s Call was an impressive ship. It had to have been an imposing sight in its day before it was sent to the bottom of the sea by Horde hands—and Jaina’s.

There was a strange energy on the ship that only seemed to grow the closer they came to their destination. Everyone dutifully went about their tasks but carried with them a tension that only released at night when drink and song helped everyone forget the state of the world for a few hours.

Well, _almost_ everyone.

She had hoped the week apart would stifle whatever was happening between them. No such luck, seeing Jaina in Suramar after a week spent restlessly doing every piece of busy work she could find immediately lightened her step and sent flutters through her chest. She would not be free of it so easily, and could not escape the way her heart clenched seeing Jaina so obviously stressed.

Jaina was more restless than Sylvanas had ever seen her, constantly pouring over maps and going back and forth with Anduin over what little recent news he could dig up about Kul Tiras. The island was still active; ships were seen frequently enough that one could assume the nation had not been utterly devastated by recent events. However, that made the lack of response to Jaina’s missive all the more troubling. It should have reached them within days of Jaina setting out from Bladefist Bay. They had mages of a sort, she even sent them instructions on how best to efficiently contact her, but there was no reaction. Not even a terse warning to stay out of their waters.

Sylvanas did what she could to distract Jaina from tying herself in knots, getting her to talk about the Houses of Kul Tiras, the histories of each, and who was most likely to be in charge of them if nothing drastic had happened to interrupt lines of succession. House Proudmoore was the least discussed and Sylvanas avoided pressing, quickly moving their conversations along when Jaina's eyes started to get lost in memory.

The night before they were set to arrive, Sylvanas vacated the lower decks to put as much groaning timber between her and the crew's incessant singing. She found some peace at the bow of the ship, hands resting on the balustrade as she stared up at the stars. The sky was clear, a sight that would become increasingly rare in the coming weeks.

The Cenarion Circle was preparing for the worst, working in feverish collaboration with other druid sects to shore up food production in the increasingly likely scenario that the sun would be absent for a time.

If the Earthen Ring didn’t figure something out, the world would soon feel a lot colder.

Boots on the stairs made her look over her shoulder to see Jaina ascending, breath billowing white. She was pale-faced, her jaw tense, with a dark and distant look in her eyes—Sylvanas could only assume another nightmare. The shadows under her eyes had worsened. It had barely been two hours since she tried to sleep, at Sylvanas's urging no less.

“Nightmares?” Sylvanas asked quietly, dropping the pretence of ignorance.

Jaina made a small noise of affirmation and came to stand next to her, leaning on the balustrade hardly a few inches from Sylvanas’s right hand.

Silence enveloped them a while as Sylvanas debated whether she was meant to make space, only for Jaina to sigh.

“What happened with you and Vereesa?”

Sylvanas blinked. The nightmare must have been about family, little reason why Jaina would ask about hers out of nowhere.

The words stuck in her throat, too fresh, and she flattened her ears.

Jaina clarified quietly, “before, I mean.”

Sylvanas relaxed, but only slightly. “I told you this already.”

“You told me half of it.”

“What?”

Jaina looked at her with eyes that were far too tired to be so observant.

Sylvanas averted her eyes, hands flexing on the stained wood. She scowled. “Honesty for honesty, Proudmoore, I tell you the truth, you tell me about these nightmares of yours. Does that satisfy?” she muttered.

Jaina tensed a moment, fidgeting with the material of her gloves. But she hummed again, and Sylvanas grit her teeth, having faintly hoped Jaina would be too tired and raw to ascent to that.

Shaking her head, Sylvanas glared down at the waves as if she could make the surface boil through sheer intent. “Fine,” she hissed, “but remember that you _asked_ for this information.”

“What happened?”

“She approached me during Garrosh’s trial.”

Jaina started at the name but made no comment, so Sylvanas continued. “Naturally, she was grieving her husband and sought me out. I was always the one she ran to first when something upset her, old habits, I suppose.”

If there was a problem, Alleria always wanted it dealt with as soon as possible, pushed out of the way to make room for the solution, which almost always manifested as her being too brusque and heavy-handed when it came to more delicate matters.

Vereesa learned quickly not to bring emotional problems to her but to Sylvanas. To the more relaxed, indulgent sister who would let her cry it out and get some of her favourite pastries before even trying to get an explanation out of her.

It certainly irked Alleria that even the ‘hedonistic peacock’ of the family was better at such things than she was, at least enough to sneer about it.

After so many cold and wretched years, hugging Vereesa again as if nothing had changed should have felt terribly awkward and not at all like slipping on an old glove. It had jarred her so much she almost threw Vereesa off her but refrained, letting the baby sister she had held so often just cry into her shoulder, and the protective, familial rage came roaring back like a lion in her heart.

That feeling had _terrified_ her.

With an irritable flick of her ears, Sylvanas sighed. “I did what little I could to comfort her, but she came to me with a plan in mind. She wanted me to help her assassinate him.”

Jaina looked at her wide-eyed. “She _what_?”

Sylvanas smiled coldly at her. “Yes, imagine my surprise, my little sister approaching me for an untraceable poison with which to _murder_ someone.” Her smile faded into a dark look as she returned her attention to the waves. “Pain and anger can make anyone cruel, Proudmoore. You and I know this far too well.”

Jaina looked away, shoulders hunching. “True enough,” she murmured, her voice distant. “What was your response?”

Sylvanas sneered, “I wanted him dead, of course.” _For hurting you, for threatening my people, for nearly destroying us all,_ she wanted to say and bit back. “But such an act held many risks, and I did not consider it worth the trouble, the sheer _mess_ it would create if we were caught—but she was in pain, and she convinced me. I told her such a poison would take time to develop, and I expected her to leave me until it was complete. But she lingered, she needed someone to listen, and she could not bear to foist that burden on you.”

“I would have listened.”

“She knew you would—that is why she didn’t.”

Jaina’s throat worked around a tangle of emotion before she cleared it, blinking a few times. “What then?” she asked quietly.

Sylvanas flattened her ears, head lowering. “She... began to tell me that she missed me. That she wished she could leave behind everything and stay with me in the Undercity, to be sisters again.”

Vereesa had been so single-minded in her grief, seeking whatever respite she could grasp even in the darkest of places, even with her abomination of a sister. That Vereesa could gain even a semblance of comfort with her had made Sylvanas feel, at least in the moment, a tiny step closer to what she used to be.

How little it mattered in the end.

Shaking her head, Sylvanas said coldly, “of course, the Forsaken would never accept one of the living as a leader. The living _cannot_ understand their plight, their needs, or what they have experienced. I explained as much to Vereesa.”

“And?”

“She asked me to make her understand.”

Jaina slowly looked at her again, the implication of those words landing heavily. “She wanted to _become_ Forsaken?”

She remembered staring at Vereesa, utterly aghast at the suggestion, her mouth working uselessly like a startled fish. The idea that she should kill and raise her only remaining family…

Sylvanas suppressed a shudder and nodded.

Jaina asked, “what did you say?”

Sylvanas glared. “I told her that she was _mad_. What else would I say?”

Jaina averted her eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting anything,” she said quickly. “I just don’t think _I_ would know what to say to that. That isn’t just suicide. It’s...”

“An existence of misery for the lives she failed to save.”

“You think she was punishing herself?”

“Perhaps.”

Jaina let out a long, heavy sigh, resting her head in her hands. “What then?”

Sylvanas felt numb as she described the look in Vereesa’s eyes, the terrible clarity to them, wracked with deep, heart-rending pain as her words hit Sylvanas like the blow of a hammer. The way her little sister explaining through broken tears, how much it hurt to even _look_ at her own children. How she couldn’t bring herself to touch them, let alone speak to them, for every time she saw shades of Rhonin in them and the pain was like salt in the wound.

Arator was already doing everything—what need did they have of her when she couldn’t even stand to hug them?

Jaina rubbed her brow as if she could wipe away the deep frown furrowing it. “Tides, I had no idea it was that bad,” she murmured.

Sylvanas shook her head. “Likely another reason she came to me instead of you,” she said, mouth twisting bitterly. “Perhaps she thought the _Banshee Queen_ would have no issue with such a request and did not think about what her _sister_ made of it.”

It was hard to tell when and where Vereesa’s perception of her shifted. Sometimes she would be looked at as familiar and others as foreign, and it could happen so quickly, quickly enough to leave Sylvanas unbalanced.

Sylvanas could not keep the venom from her voice as she recounted just how ardent Vereesa had been in her conviction that she already understood, that she already felt utterly bereft and out of place among the living, among the survivors. That the Undercity was where she always should have been from the very beginning. That she should have been there for Sylvanas at the start, with her in the fall.

_“I belong here with you.”_

Those words all but cut Sylvanas’s legs out from under her, wrenching at a desperate and pitiful part of her that longed for connection despite all her efforts to bury it.

Scowling, Sylvanas hissed, “I was _weak_. I told her I would _consider_ it only after Garrosh was dealt with.”

“Something happened.”

“Yes. Yes, it did.”

Jaina looked at her again, dour and sympathetic, and Sylvanas distantly noted that the Archmage had somehow closer without her noticing.

The memory of it made her stomach clench, ribs constricting, and Sylvanas did her best not to splinter the balustrade in her hands. “The Little Lion happened to catch her the night before that farce was set to end. They spoke at length, and I do not know the details of their conversation, only that Vereesa _cracked_ ,” she all but spat the word, scowling. “She revealed the plan, warned him of the poison, and fled back to her family, where she actually belonged.”

After a beat of painful silence, she muttered, “she left me a letter _,_ and we have not spoken since.”

“Since recently.”

“We are _not_ talking about that.”

“I know. I’m just sorry it took her that long to speak with you again.”

Sylvanas closed her eyes, sighing out a long breath at the kindness Jaina showed her despite her weakness and monstrosity. After a long moment of the waves passing them by, Sylvanas opened her eyes and muttered, “Now you.”

Jaina took a breath and looked away, fidgeting with her gauntlet a while before the words came to her. “It’s the same nightmare. It always starts well enough, tricking me with a pleasant memory. I see myself with my father before I went to Dalaran, and he sings to me, looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. My mother calls me away, and when my father is alone, he finally acknowledges me as I am now.”

Her words caught in her throat, and she roughly cleared it. “He turns to face me, and half of him has rotted away from the ocean. I can see a crab crawl out of one empty eye socket as he looks at me and tells me that mother will never forgive me, that I’m a murderer and a traitor, and that I will die like one.”

Sylvanas half-turned towards her, noting the tension in her jaw. The glint of Jaina’s anchor pendant in the moonlight drew her eye, and she wondered how heavy it felt at times, with all the meaning it carried, and how much the memory of that day weighed on Jaina even now, _especially_ now.

Jaina’s throat worked around something difficult, her brow knitting. “It always ends with me drowning,” she muttered, her eyes unfocused.

The impulse to reach out moved her arm half-way before Sylvanas realised what she was doing and stopped. But Jaina noticed the movement, eye’s sharpening as she looked from Sylvanas’s arm to her face, and Sylvanas froze, caught in the tired wariness of Jaina’s stare.

Her stomach curdled at her own selfish arrogance. If Jaina _wanted_ comfort, she would seek it, and certainly not from the likes of her. She withdrew her hand as if burned, shoving it behind her back. An apology rose in her throat and stuck, feeling utterly inadequate.

Jaina slowly turned towards her, and she steeled herself for cold admonishment, a reminder that the kindness Jaina showed her was not forgiveness but pragmatism. A catatonic banshee was of no _use_ to anyone, after all.

That would have be far more understandable than Jaina stepping closer and bowing her head to Sylvanas’s shoulder.

Oh.

Oh, Jaina had to feel genuinely wretched to do _that_.

Her hands were treacherous things, lifting without thought until she gingerly laid them high on Jaina’s back.

Jaina did not recoil from the touch. She let out a long, shaking breath and pressed closer, her boots bumping into Sylvanas’s.

Taking a breath to speak brought the smell of heather again, and an ache bloomed deep in Sylvanas’s chest. “You are not going to drown, Jaina,” she said in a low, firm voice, “I will not allow it.”

The mistake struck her as quickly as it did Jaina, whose head lifted sharply to look her straight in the eye with soft surprise. “What was that?” she asked quietly, warm breath scattering across Sylvanas’s cheeks.

“Lady Proudmoore!” a male voice called from below.

Sylvanas dropped her hands and stepped away in the same movement. She fixed her stare on the waves as the ship’s captain came searching for clarification on some map or another. She did not pay attention to the reason, only that Jaina stared at her for a moment too long before sighing and walking away to deal with it.

She waited until she couldn't hear their voices to slowly lean on the balustrade again and hang her head.

 _Anar’alah_ , what did she think she was doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	11. Daughter of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina and Sylvanas arrive in Kul Tiras and everything goes perfectly.

They were not greeted by a blockade or cannon fire, but neither were they welcomed into the harbour. Instead, the Pride’s Call was all but corralled to the outermost docks where the great walls of Boralus loomed over them, as chilly and impenetrable as a glacier in the grey morning light, their boundary flaunted by crying gulls. Whatever damage Kul Tiras suffered in the Wounding’s aftermath could not be discerned from outside. If it had suffered anything at all.

Sylvanas adjusted the way her left vambrace sat as she stood on the main deck, eyeing the towering walls and all the guards glaring down at them, muttering to each other, gesturing at this or that. The sight of the former Lord Admiral’s flagship had to be jarring, but Jaina’s warning should have softened the blow.

If it reached them.

If it _wasn’t_ intercepted.

A squirming sensation began to take root in her stomach. Sylvanas forced her ears to sit higher than they wanted to.

Admiralty guardsmen gathered on the stone pier, parting only for the arrival of five men and women on horseback, broad, imposing breeds with heavy hooves. The riders wore different colours to the other guards, red tabards with gold trim and the symbol of scales emblazoned in white instead of the sea green and brass with an anchor symbol. House Ashvane and House Proudmoore, she recognised them from Jaina’s descriptions.

Some of the Kul Tirans were noticeably bigger than the others. Their size and build reminded her of vrykul, and a memory of past conversation came to mind when Jaina offhandedly mentioned how strange it was to see ‘drust’ in Northrend and how different they were.

House Berglund, of the westernmost island of Kul Tiras, Drustvar, was almost entirely made up of those vrykul cousins.

Scanning the guards again revealed neither Berglund nor Stormsong colours.

The Farseer and the Battlelord stood impassive with their Pact compatriots on the main deck, holding a tense staring contest with the guards.

“This doesn’t look promising,” murmured Velonara beside her, “your orders, Dark Lady?”

“Stay on the ship, for now, and prepare to stay out of sight otherwise.”

“Right, wouldn’t want to antagonise.”

Velonara looked at something behind them and smiled grimly. “Good luck,” she muttered, moving away to stand with Kalira and Cyndia up on the stern.

Sylvanas did not need to look to know Jaina had just emerged from below decks. _“_ You’re sure you sent word ahead?” she asked when Jaina came to stand next to her.

“Yes,” said Jaina distantly.

Sylvanas looked at her. She was grimmer than ever, but her jaw was set, not to be dissuaded.

With her vambrace not getting any more comfortable, Sylvanas instead clasped her hands behind her back and returned her eyes to the foremost mounted guard. The embellishments on his pauldrons marked him as some kind of captain. “They seem displeased,” she said evenly.

Jaina drew herself up, shoulders back. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The second their feet left the gangway and hit Kul Tiran ground, the captain snapped at them.

“Halt! State your intentions!”

Jaina looked him dead in the eye. “I am Jaina Proudmoore.”

A bristling ripple passed through the guards, some gasping, most glaring, but Jaina pressed on. “I have come for an audience with Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore. I sent word of my intentions; you’ve had fair warning of my arrival.”

The guard’s mouth curled in a sneer. “We’ve had no such warning,” he spat, “but we’ll take you to Katherine, all right. You can tell her all about your ‘intentions’ as you answer for your crimes against Kul Tiras!”

Sylvanas tensed, glowering at him, but he paid her next to no attention. All his ire was focused on Jaina, who stiffly canted her head. “As you wish.”

Sylvanas looked at her sidelong, questioning, but Jaina didn’t return the look. A hard, tight feeling gripped her stomach. Sylvanas ignored it as they followed the guard captain.

Most eyes stuck to Jaina, but some did fix on her, with her bleak presence and glowing red eyes, and what she saw was cold curiosity at most, but no disgusted recognition at what she was. Perhaps they couldn’t tell, somehow, to them she may just be some strange continental elf they hadn’t heard of.

The guards closed in behind them, and Sylvanas clenched her hands at the sensation of being caged in, the feeling of which only increased as they left the pier and passed through the thick walls protecting Boralus. Guards lined the road, keeping people from getting in the way with barked warnings and stern glares.

Jaina said in a low, tight voice, “As disciplined as ever. My father was so proud of them.”

Grit crunched underfoot, and the snow-kissed masonry of Boralus rose around them, green roof tiles barely peeking through the white.

They walked up what appeared to be the main road while curious people gathered at the perimeter, peering at them through the wall of guards. Most wore heavy coats and knit caps as their breath misted in the chilled air, and some even wore scarves, but it was easy enough to see the fear in some faces. Most were angry or full of scorn as whispers spread like oil on water.

Sylvanas’s ears easily picked out different voices in the crowd, ‘the daughter of the sea,’ ‘can’t be,’ ‘why is she here,’ ‘she’s come back to finish us.’

It didn’t take long for those whispers to break into shouts, flung with the same intent as javelins.

“Murderer!”

“How dare you show your face here!”

“My brother died at Theramore!”

“Traitor!”

“Curse you!”

Sylvanas grit her teeth, glancing at Jaina again to see her looking straight ahead, mouth pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders had dropped.

Ears pinned back, Sylvanas muttered, “what is the plan now?”

Jaina muttered back, “Convince my mother that she needs to work with us.”

“Are you not hearing this, Proudmoore? These people want your blood.”

“I am _aware_ , Windrunner, and you _will_ let me handle it.”

The acidic tone came with a warning bristle of arcane, and Sylvanas backed off, returning her attention to the crowd. Not everyone looked at Jaina with hate and anger, some just looked sad, and a rare few looked strangely hopeful, but that was so out of place that Sylvanas couldn’t be sure if she was correctly interpreting those particular looks.

To greet such a hated figure with hope—perhaps to them, Jaina was a sign of change or opportunity.

The tense march finally brought them up a sloping road to a towering keep that rose grey and imposing above the city. The colours of House Proudmoore fluttered in the wind from its spires.

They ascended the stairs into a courtyard where more Admiralty guards awaited their arrival. It was just as thronged by onlookers, most of them dressed in distinctive greatcoats and jackets that signified which House they belonged to.

They were brought to a stop in the middle of the courtyard. A hush fell over everyone, and it felt like waiting for a guillotine to drop.

The great doors of the keep swung open, and two women emerged.

One was taller with dark hair and grey eyes, wearing an Ashvane greatcoat and a pendant that Sylvanas immediately recognised as refined azerite. Strange that she neither sensed nor saw any sign of azerite elsewhere in the city, it had a distinctive arcane thrum to it that would have made it obvious.

The other woman was shorter but had a far greater presence, standing in a refined, royal green admiralty jacket with grey hair pulled into a neat bun. While she is quite a bit older, her features were too reminiscent of Jaina’s for her to be anyone other than Katherine Proudmoore. There was a thinness to her that did not belong, from the dip of her cheeks to the slightly off fit of her otherwise finely tailored clothing, belying a great deal of hidden stress, illness, or both, it was hard to say.

The dark look on her face did not inspire confidence in the situation. Her eyes were cold and piercing but otherwise guarded, and she held herself with restraint, her chin lifted to look down at Jaina from the top of the stairs leading to the doors.

The dark-haired woman paid more attention to Sylvanas than Katherine did, her quick eyes taking in everything with more cunning than Sylvanas was comfortable with.

“So, my wayward daughter returns to the kingdom she betrayed. Why?” Katherine spoke in a voice as cold as her eyes.

Jaina drew herself up, speaking firmly, “All of Azeroth is at risk. The planet is _bleeding_ ; ash is smothering the skies across Kalimdor and is spreading eastward as we speak. You must have felt the wave, experienced the firestorm before it, _heard_ the impact. We are not in a place where we have the _luxury_ of standing alone and surviving it, not with the Old Gods moving to take advantage of _everyone_. The ship is sinking, and we must work together to save it. I have come on behalf of both the Alliance… and the Horde.”

A collective gasp shot through the crowd. Outrage darkened the tall woman’s face, but Katherine’s only reaction was a widening of her eyes.

“You murder our people, your own father, for those green-skins, and you have the _nerve_ to come here and ask us to forget that?” the Ashvane woman snarled. She gestured aggressively at Sylvanas but didn’t look at her again. “You even brought their _people_ with you!” she spat.

Jaina met the glare with steel in her voice, “The people on my ship are from a diplomatic coalition called the Pact, members of the Horde and Alliance who have been working together for almost two years now without failure, some of them for much longer than that. They are _only_ here to prove that our intentions are peaceful and to aid Kul Tiras in whatever way is needed.”

Sylvanas’s ears pricked at the omission of who exactly she was, but taking in the hateful, angry eyes of everyone around them, she did not move to correct Jaina.

The woman scowled. “Has your mind been so completely lost, child?” she sneered. “Do you not remember where you come from? What these _monsters_ have taken from us, all the _empty graves_ they’ve left us with?”

Jaina stood her ground. “I remember, Priscilla. I do not do this lightly or with ease, but I made sure to warn you of our arrival and explain all of—”

Priscilla interrupted her, snarling, “Explain what exactly? How you planned to stand here and act as if the blood of our loved ones, our _children_ , isn’t dripping from the hands of the Horde? As if the Alliance doesn’t share that blood for their cowardice at Theramore!”

Jaina frowned deeply. “What happened at Theramore was _my_ choice, not the Alliance’s.”

A malicious and cold triumph shined in Pricilla’s eyes, and Sylvanas fought the urge to shift her weight from foot to foot, eyes darting across the crowd to see how well Pricilla was stoking their anger. This woman was not the Lord Admiral, but Katherine just stood and watched her daughter’s every move, not bothering to take charge of the conversation.

Priscilla drew up to her full height, staring down her nose at Jaina. “So you admit it, do you? You admit that _you_ were responsible for the deaths of our loved ones? For the _wound_ you inflicted on our people, the _families_ you ripped apart?”

They were barbed words meant to play on emotion, and they were words that caused Jaina’s shoulders to cave slightly.

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes.

There was a little less iron in Jaina’s voice as she said, “It was the only choice. The Horde my father attacked was not the Horde we knew. They were trying to start over, in peace.”

“Peace! Like the peace they gave your brother? Or my husband? Just how _peaceful_ was your father’s death, oh Daughter of the Sea?”

“They weren’t like that! He attacked them unprovoked!”

Katherine’s stern voice cut them short. “Enough!”

Sylvanas’s ears sat flat against her head. She could cut the tension in the air with a knife, and the leather of her gloves creaked as she forcibly unclenched her hands.

A second passed, stifling in its weight.

Katherine regarded her daughter coolly. “You stand here defending your actions to those they harmed, and you expect us to listen?”

Jaina placed a hand over her heart. “Mo—Lord Admiral, I will do anything in my power to ease the suffering of Kul Tiras. But I have _not_ lied about my reasons or the state of the world. Whatever my fate must be here, please believe me when I tell you that the situation is too dire to stand alone.”

Sylvanas looked at her then, ears swivelling forward in alarm. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Jaina ignored her.

Her ears twitched as they picked up Priscilla speaking quietly to the Lord Admiral. _“Our people need justice, Katherine, enforce our laws. The punishment for treason is death.”_

With Priscilla’s voice came a scent, the barest hint of it, so subtle that Sylvanas doubted any of the humans around her noticed it.

Crude oil.

Sylvanas stiffened, eyeing how many guards and civilians surrounded them. Too many, she would have to use her powers, but in such close proximity that would run the risk of hurting not just the Lord Admiral and other innocent people in the process, but Jaina as well, and Jaina would almost certainly not forgive her for that.

Jaina would probably even try to stop her.

The realisation that Jaina almost certainly _could_ stop her felt like a brick of ice in her stomach.

She couldn’t do a damned thing.

As she tried to think of a subtle way out of the situation, Katherine walked down the stairs to stand before Jaina. Sea green eyes briefly inspected Sylvanas and just as quickly discarded her as unimportant, falling instead on the daughter Katherine hadn’t seen in nearly two decades.

Sylvanas wondered what it was Katherine saw, how much of the young girl she sent away to Dalaran remained, if she even recognised Jaina under the years of stress and war, hair bleached white by a bomb that destroyed everything she worked to build, eyes glowing with a power that should have killed her.

Gravely, Katherine asked, “do you accept the judgement of your homeland?”

In an instant, the fight went out of Jaina like a snuffed candle and Sylvanas’s stomach curdled at the sight of it. “I accept _your_ judgement, mother,” she said in a subdued voice, gaze dropping to the Lord Admiral’s boots.

The hint of a cruel, cold smile played on Priscilla’s face.

Sylvanas wanted to scream, she wanted to grab Jaina and flee from the situation, but she knew it would trigger a bloodbath to do it now.

Damn Jaina and her accursed martyrdom.

Katherine’s eyes dropped to the anchor necklace, narrowing, and she slipped her hand beneath it, cradling it in her gloved palm.

Jaina didn’t even get half-way to looking up before Katherine grasped it tight and pulled it off, snapping the thin chain holding it to Jaina’s neck and jerking her forward with a startled grunt.

Eyes blazing, Sylvanas bared her fangs without thinking. She started forward with a sharp, echoing growl only to remember herself and rock back on her heel.

A jostle of armour followed as the guards’ inched closer, weapons twitching half-way to a ready stance.

Katherine glared up at her, eyes briefly questioning as Sylvanas resisted the urge to reach out and snatch the necklace back from her.

She wanted to curse the woman out for _daring_ to treat Jaina so callously, for refusing to see how heavily the guilt, however misplaced, weighed on Jaina’s shoulders—for not even challenging Priscilla’s command of the situation. For not yet realising there was something seriously wrong with the woman whispering in her ear.

But the wail clawed at the backs of her teeth. If Sylvanas opened her mouth now, all hell would break loose.

Another stifling second passed, and Katherine returned her gaze to Jaina. “You are no daughter of mine,” she hissed.

Jaina flinched as if kicked.

Katherine turned away, addressing Priscilla as she walked up the steps of the Keep. “Do what you will,” she said coldly. “She is _nothing_ to me.”

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Priscilla waved a hand, “men! Take the traitor and her Horde pet to Tol Dagor.”

At once, soldiers in Ashvane heraldry stepped through the Admiralty guard towards them.

With immense effort, Sylvanas swallowed down the wail enough to hiss, “ _Proudmoore_.”

Jaina muttered an utterly defeated, “don’t.”

There were many times Sylvanas had heard Jaina exhausted, fearful, despairing, or outraged, but to hear her sound so _crushed_ was another experience Sylvanas could have done without.

There was precious little she could do, so against the roiling fury in her gut, she fell quiet, and she watched. She watched as the Admiralty guards peeled away and left them to be escorted by the Ashvane men, walking them down to a waiting wagon that wasn’t warded or otherwise reinforced for carrying prisoners of their calibre.

Jaina’s complete submission to the situation had them in a false sense of security, but not enough to forgo cuffing them.

Simple steel, lacking enchantment and easily broken by the likes of her.

Jaina was all but shoved inside.

Sylvanas bared her fangs at the man who attempted to do the same to her. She ducked into the wagon and sat across from Jaina in the enclosed space.

The door slammed and bolted shut, closing out the world.

Her voice came out a heavily distorted seethe, “what the fuck was _that_?”

Jaina didn’t answer her, not even blinking at the distortion or her staggeringly rare use of a common-tongue expletive. It didn’t carry the same bite as in thalassian, but she wanted to startle Jaina out of her miserable stupor, get across that this was absolutely not an acceptable outcome.

No such luck. Jaina just sat there, glowing eyes unfocused in the darkness.

The wagon lurched into motion, and Sylvanas barely managed to swallow her anger again. It wouldn’t serve her here, not yet, though she would feel much better letting it out. She had to think this through.

Tiny barred windows in the wagon’s sides allowed her to see out and watch as the city fell away. They were taken out into the country, flanked by four mounted guards, with a driver and another guard riding the front. The landscape was streaked with snow, grey and rocky, with coastal flats on one side of the road and steep, rugged hills lined with conifers on the other.

The further away from the city they got, the better, and Sylvanas considered what she noticed about Priscilla. A snake in the grass, someone who played on everyone’s emotions, pushed right by the coming hardships Jaina tried to warn them about and did not call attention to the claim that Jaina tried to contact Kul Tiras ahead of time.

If anything, Priscilla steered the conversation away from that piece of information.

The idea that Jaina’s missive was intercepted by Ashvane did not escape Sylvanas.

There was the azerite necklace, refined and shaped by skilled hands into a stable form. _Someone_ in Kul Tiras was working with azerite and had grown familiar enough to create jewellery.

And finally, there was that smell, the same smell that came with Alleria, the faceless ones, and Azshara.

The influence of the Old Gods was already in Kul Tiras.

Scowling, Sylvanas brooded a while, glaring at Jaina until the wagon stopped in the middle of nowhere when an extra rider joined them. She narrowed her eyes, ears swivelling to listen to the Ashvane guards whisper to each other.

“Got special orders for the traitor. She’s bound for Fate’s End.”

“Why not send her to the monastery, feed the Tidemother?”

“Are you questioning Lady Ashvane’s orders?”

“No. Just wondering how it serves the masters is all. It’s not their domain, is it?”

“Maybe, but we serve the masters as we’re told, _zaix oou kssh'ga_.”

_“Zaix oou kssh'ga.”_

Sylvanas stiffened at the hissed shath'yar, and the fury came boiling back to the surface, clawing under her skin like a cornered, feral animal trying to escape.

Heavy boots tromped around to the back of the wagon.

Sylvanas hissed, “ _Jaina._ ”

No response.

The door opened, and Sylvanas lunged into the open air in a flood of black smoke, manacles falling broken into the mud. They barely even had the chance to scream, whatever darkness they were involved in they were men like any other and they broke just as easily. Her claws and tendrils made short work of them, tearing through throats or breaking them outright, whatever would silence them quickest. The beasts fell too, skulls pulverised with a harsh whipping crack of tendrils.

When the last man slumped to the ground, pallid and drained, Sylvanas finally felt that familiar bristle of arcane magic and spun around to see Jaina standing just outside the wagon, eyes wide and burning white.

Aghast, Jaina asked, “What have you _done_?”

Sylvanas hissed, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye, smoke still bleeding from her body as she grabbed Jaina by the cloak in blood-stained hands. “We did not come here for your self-flagellation!” she snapped, shaking her a little. “We came here to help _our_ people, the Horde and the Alliance, and you threw it aside! What _good_ does your death serve? Do you finally pay for your sins? Or for surviving when others didn’t? Would _that_ satisfy the martyr in you, Proudmoore?”

Silence fell heavy on them and Jaina said nothing, her wide-eyed expression slowly shifting into knitted brows and a searching look. Her eyes dimmed back to a pale blue glow.

Feeling as if she were being dissected, Sylvanas shoved away from her, hissing again. She kicked one of the bodies and took a long series of breaths, in and out, until she could finally rein herself in and stop smoking.

Part of her understood it, to a degree. She could so easily see the same damned thing playing out if Lireesa could return to condemn her for her failures. She would probably crack as Jaina did, and _that_ thought made her gut lurch like a squid trying to escape out her throat.

The sound of snapping manacles made her face Jaina again, watching the mage rub at her freed wrists.

Jaina stared at the bodies around them with a dark look in her eyes. “They were just doing their job, Sylvanas."

Scowling, Sylvanas crossed her arms. “They wanted to ‘feed’ you to a ‘Tidemother’ and spoke of serving ‘the masters.’ They _spoke_ shath'yar, Proudmoore.”

Jaina startled, looking at her with raised brows. “That… that can’t be right. Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

She answered firmly without looking away. “Yes.”

Jaina hissed a curse under her breath and sat down on the wagon steps, cradling her brow in her palms.

The distant cry of gulls filled the silence between them as Sylvanas gave the mage a moment to breathe, and she contemplated their next moves. They needed to get this mess out of sight, for one, she could certainly move all of it on her own but destroying it was another matter—Jaina’s magic was more efficient.

When Jaina finally lifted her head with a resigned look on her face, Sylvanas asked, “The woman at your mother’s side, Priscilla, was it?”

“Priscilla Ashvane, yes.”

“Did you notice the azerite she wore?”

At her nod, Sylvanas continued, “and yet no sign of it anywhere else, in armour or weaponry. She commanded that conversation, focused on old wounds and not the danger you were trying to warn them of, pushed your mother to act as she did. When she whispered to your mother, I sensed void magic, faint but there.”

The dark look came back and Jaina frowned deeply. “I didn’t sense anything.”

Sylvanas shrugged, shaking her head. “You were _distracted_ and it was subtle. This woman will need to be removed if we are to get anywhere. Her House appears to be corrupted, how deeply remains to be seen, but I imagine we will find out, won’t we?”

Jaina blinked, shaking her head as if to break a daze. “Get anywhere?” she echoed, getting to her feet. “You still want to do this?”

Sylvanas curled her lip. “The alternative is returning to Suramar with our tail between our legs and Greymane’s smug ‘I told you so’ as welcome.”

A flash of horror crossed Jaina’s face, and she closed her eyes in a deep frown. “Oh, _fuck me_ ,” she muttered.

Sylvanas sneered, turning away to start moving bodies, and said drily, “Not now, Proudmoore, we have a mess to clean up.”

She could _feel_ the glare Jaina sent her for that, but it nonetheless spurred the mage into action to help her deal with the bodies and the wagon. They moved everything off into a rocky ditch, and worked in tense silence until it was ready to burn with arcane fire, reducing everything to cinders and slag far faster than a natural fire would.

The smell of samphire overrode the burning flesh.

Jaina stood with her brow deeply furrowed, watching the white flames die down. “We should return to Boralus and find out what’s happened to our crew,” she said flatly, “then work from there.”

“Illusions then?”

“Naturally, but let me handle it. You don’t know what to look like here.”

Sylvanas curled her lip at that but held still as Jaina wove their disguises. The magic swept over her in a ripple, leaving a faint taste of sea salt on her lips and changing her to look like some rough-and-tumble hunter, a gruff looking human to accompany what Jaina appeared to be, a fur trader with short, dark hair and a mousey face.

Sylvanas resisted the urge to check her ears were still there and drawled, “Delightful.”

Jaina shot her a look. “It’d be best if you didn’t talk when we return.”

At her arched brow, Jaina cleared her throat before answering the unspoken question in a similar accent to Katherine’s, “you don’t know how to sound like you belong here.”

Sylvanas blinked at her and felt momentarily stupid. She had only heard that accent from Jaina once before when she drank a little too much wine in Dalaran and Sylvanas walked her back to her room. Alcohol made her accent regress, and she had long since made a habit of not drinking enough for it to happen, but they were talking for a long time, and Jaina had felt relaxed enough around her of all people to not think about it.

 _“I had to fit in when I came to Dalaran. No one likes being the new girl with the ‘funny’ accent,”_ she remembered Jaina telling her. The mage had _giggled_ at her bewildered expression, causing a nascent flutter in her chest she should have strangled then and there to save both of them the trouble.

Sylvanas shook the memory away. “After you, then, Proudmoore,” she grated out, sweeping her arm down the road.

Jaina sighed and began walking back to Boralus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaina? Getting yanked out of her own god damn storyline to listen to sad kazoo music for weeks and months on end? Until the adventurers finally remember to kick in Katherine's door and ask where the fuck is she? Nope, not in this house.


	12. Laid Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gays return to Boralus and find out what their ally situation is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start your week off with. Uh. Well.

The walk back to Boralus was agony.

It wasn’t enough that she felt as if she’d been kicked in the chest by a draft horse and summarily gutted, but Sylvanas didn’t even _attempt_ conversation while they were still alone, too busy silently bristling over the fact that Jaina had, as she was wont to do at such critical moments, spectacularly fucked up.

She wanted to be stronger. She knew she was stronger than that. But when her mother looked at her with such cold anger, _discarded_ her so effortlessly as if seeing her again sparked absolutely nothing of the kindness Jaina distantly remembered, it evaporated every ounce of steel she tried to hold on to.

Her heart wrenched again, and Jaina stubbornly swallowed, blinking the sting from her eyes.

She would not cry. Not now, not over this—she had _earned_ this. She should have handled the situation better and fought harder to make her mother understand. This was still her own damn fault.

She couldn’t help but linger on the way Sylvanas looked at her, somewhere between disgust and anger and maybe a little bit afraid. Afraid of what, Jaina couldn’t begin to guess. She didn’t trust the selfishness lurking in her thoughts.

Sighing, she focused on their surroundings, taking some comfort in seeing the familiar landscape of Tiragarde. The smell of the sea was everywhere, and with some warmth in her chest, she remembered time spent exploring rock pools with Derek and Tandred.

She always loved being near the water, at least until her affinity for magic manifested and threw that into a questionable light. The sea was life, salt was in their blood, but it was a dangerous and fickle thing not to be played with.

In another life, she could have been a Tidesage, and she wondered what it might have been like to be a Thornspeaker, had she shown the aptitude for it, to wield life and death in equal measure, perfectly balanced.

Instead, her parents shipped her away to Dalaran and the Kirin Tor for political manoeuvring, a shifting of chess pieces.

The memory of it caused a faint sting behind her ribs, and Jaina clenched her jaw, apparently not as over it as she thought she was. She put it down to everything feeling too raw and present as if her memories of home and the worst parts of the last twenty years had been dredged up from the muck and put on display.

The walls of Boralus loomed into sight, grey and imposing but not nearly as intimidating as the sea wall.

Jaina closed her eyes briefly and said;

“I’m sorry, Sylvanas.”

“Never put me in that situation again,” Sylvanas said darkly, refusing to look at her.

Her throat closed on her, and Jaina took a moment to breathe, but the words didn’t come, so she pressed forward.

The guards barely looked at them. They walked through the gate unopposed and into a city abuzz with news of what just happened. Jaina did her best to shut out the gossiping chatter, the fearful, hated sound of her epithet on almost everyone’s lips. There was a time she loved being known as the Daughter of the Sea, took pride in the name, now it brought only a sinking pain that slowed her steps and caused her feet to drag, as memories of broken Kul Tiran ships and her father’s corpse floating in the bay threatened to overwhelm her.

Sylvanas silently pressed into her side, linking their arms to keep them walking at a normal pace.

Even angry with her, Sylvanas acted to keep her steady, and Jaina could not work through the thickness in her throat to thank her. Instead, she focused on keeping her face straight, putting one foot in front of the other until she brought them to an alcove overlooking the pier where the Pride’s Call was moored.

Only when they stopped moving did Sylvanas pull away or try to. Jaina held her arm tight, gripped by the fearful certainty that it was the only thing keeping her upright. She almost expected Sylvanas to protest, snap at her, or struggle, but she didn’t. Sylvanas just settled back into place without a word.

She swallowed again.

The ship was still there, and so was its crew, though they appeared agitated, arguing from the deck’s sovereign territory with a group of Ashvane men.

Jaina frowned, thinking back to just how many of Ashvane’s people she saw throughout Boralus. She didn’t remember the house being so prolific when she was young, but it had been decades. A lot could change in that time. A lot _had_ changed in that time.

One of the Pact delegates was doing the arguing. Neither the Battlelord nor the Farseer were in sight, and neither were the rangers for that matter.

Sylvanas stiffened and abruptly turned them around to face a stranger who had approached them without a sound, a pale, skinny human woman with flinty eyes and a hood pulled over her head. She wore hunting leathers, with a plain bow slung across her back.

“Kalira,” Sylvanas muttered.

Jaina blinked, realising the Dark Rangers could disguise themselves as well. “Where is—what’s happened?” she asked quietly.

“This way,” Kalira murmured.

She led them away from prying eyes and down to the rest of the outer docks, where even fewer heads turned at their passing.

The sharp orders and calls of ‘get a move on’ or ‘careful’ or ‘over here’ echoed off the sea wall as the cries of gulls did. The long stretch of salted flagstones played host to various hawkers and stalls, travelling merchants only there for a couple of days to sell their wares and move on with their ship.

Folk just trying to make a living bustled back and forth, carrying trade goods and raw materials to and from the various ships that still came to Boralus, welcomed as long as they were unaffiliated with the Horde or the Alliance. There was even a ship from Pandaria, most likely offloading spices.

Before they could slip into the crowd, Kalira brought them to a large house built below street level. It was carved right into the dark grey bedrock Boralus was built on, and Jaina realised with a start that she recognised it before she even looked at the sign hanging overhead. She visited a few times with her father, usually riding on his shoulders.

She wondered if Cyrus was still the Harbourmaster.

Numbly, she crossed the threshold into warmer, dryer air, and the door shut behind them, closing out the world. They moved through a small, tiled entryway into an office space with an imposing desk and a dozen shelves and cubbies for scrolls, ledgers, and writing supplies. A hanging lamp lit the room in gentle cream tones, warming the dark hardwood of the floor.

Kalira took them through a heavy door on the left into a large main room, with stairs going up immediately to the right, an open archway on the far side leading to a kitchen, and a roaring fireplace just beyond the stairs on the right side of the room.

All the furniture was dark hardwood and built large to accommodate someone of much greater stature than a human. Hunting trophies, furs, and trinkets made from wicker and bone offset the plain grey masonry of the walls, along with paintings of sea beasts adding a splash of greens and blues.

“Found them, did you?”

Jaina blinked back a sting at the voice, rough but warm and carrying the distinctive accent drust were known for, similar but easily distinguished from their cousins in Northrend.

Cyrus Skramstad stood by the fireplace, still a tower of strength at the drust average of nine feet even twenty years since she last saw him, standing with a straight back and arms crossed. His cropped hair and chinstrap beard had turned from black to silver with age, and he wore familiar, plain work pants with a heavy belt and a thick blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The Battlelord and the Farseer stood with him, looking bewildered for a second only for recognition to flash across Keleria’s face, ears pricking.

“Thank the stars,” she sighed, rubbing her brow.

Jaina belatedly remembered the Battlelord’s eyes were similar to that of a demon hunter’s.

Two unfamiliar women stood by the stairs, stiff-backed with the same flinty eyes as Kalira, and they both offered quick salutes to Sylvanas. Velonara and Cyndia made it as well.

With the world closed out and Cyrus evidently _not_ interested in turning them over, Jaina released the illusion. Only then did she remember she was still holding onto Sylvanas and quickly let go, trying not to feel bereft at the loss of contact.

Silently, Sylvanas moved to stand with her rangers, arms crossing as she regarded Cyrus with great scrutiny.

He offered a grim smile. “That was quite the welcome home. I’ve got my people’s heads on a swivel, but needless to say, we have to be careful here.”

Jaina swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of her voice. “I don’t understand. Why are you helping us, Cyrus? Last I knew, you looked up to my father.”

“I did, still do in some respects.”

“Then, why?”

“Because times change and people are flawed, he certainly was. You came back for _our_ sake when you didn’t have to. You had to know what might happen if you did, and you did it anyway.”

He glanced at Sylvanas, dark eyes dropping to the red stains on her gauntlets and flitting back to the corresponding stains on the hem of Jaina’s cloak. “I won’t ask how you and your friend here got out of Ashvane’s clutches. I can guess, and I don’t care. Ashvane is poison in the heart of Kul Tiras, something in the House has gone rotten, and it’s spreading.”

Jaina frowned. “The Old Gods.”

“Aye, _those_ bastards—there’s been a lot of strange activity of late, ritual murders, missing persons, strange folk preaching cryptic riddles, shadows in the water. Got a lot of people on edge, and with the Fleet missing—”

“Excuse me?”

Cyrus looked at her straight on, shoulders hunching. “The Fleet is missing,” he said, eyes dark. “Has been for at least two months now. Tandred was in command, with him presumed lost Katherine hasn’t been the same, and Priscilla is exploiting that like a shark smelling blood in the water.”

Before Jaina could question him about that, the front door opened and closed, and all attention turned to two humans entering the main room.

One was a lanky, red-headed man wearing a well-loved oilskin coat, with a rapier and a pistol strapped to his belt, and the other was a tall, brawny woman wearing a breastplate and leathers. She had shoulder-length black hair, and an impressive war hammer slung across her back.

“Ah, we’re all here, marvellous,” said the red-head, rubbing his hands together. He looked at Jaina, smiling. “We did what we could for your friends here, but I think the rest of your crew are shit out of luck ‘til we get this mess sorted out.”

“If we can,” said the woman, rubbing the back of her neck. “They won’t be hauled away as long as they stick to the ship, but that’s not sustainable.”

“Depends how much food they have and how long this takes, I suppose.”

“Aye.”

Cyrus gestured for them to come closer to the fire. “Come here and get the chill off you,” he said kindly, then addressed everyone else. “This is Flynn and Taelia. They’ll be helping us sort out this mess.”

Flynn offered a casual salute as he eagerly warmed his hands by the fire. “Pleasure!”

Taelia walked across the room to the kitchen. “I’ll get some coffee brewing!” she called over her shoulder.

Cyrus called back to her. “Use the good stuff; they’ve had a hell of a day!”

Jaina moved a little closer to the fire, looking up at Cyrus. “Don’t you care that the Horde is here, _with_ me?”

A heavy sigh left him.

He settled into a large leather armchair by the fire, propping his boots on the raised hearth. “If I was a younger man, maybe, full of fire and vengeance,” he said, frowning. “But I hear a lot of stories through the port. You weren’t lying about the Pact. The Horde _we_ knew would never have worked for peace, too busy enslaving dragons and worshipping their Tides damned demons. Times change, and if _this_ Horde is here to offer a helping hand instead of a sword, I say let them. There’s been more than enough blood and pain.”

Jaina looked at Sylvanas, who watched Cyrus closely like a nightsaber, ready to leap if he moved wrong. When her eye was caught, Sylvanas moved to stand beside Jaina, keeping her eyes on Cyrus. Even sitting down, he could easily grab one of them and do severe damage—but Jaina knew he was far gentler than his size implied.

Not unlike the Farseer, actually.

Cyrus eyed Sylvanas. “You’re not just an envoy, are you? You don’t hold yourself like one.”

Sylvanas canted her head. “I should hope not. I am the _Warchief_ of the Horde.”

Jaina held her breath.

A strangled noise shot out of Flynn, looking at them both with a bug-eyed expression.

Cyrus blinked slowly and looked Sylvanas over again, a bit more critical this time but nodding all the same. “An elf in charge of the Horde,” he mused, scratching his beard, “will wonders never cease. Well, things _must_ be dire for you to come here yourself, though it was smart of you to avoid giving that away up there, might’ve started a riot.”

“The world is in a fragile and deteriorating state, of which the Old Gods are moving to take advantage. It was Lady Proudmoore’s belief that Kul Tiras would be invaluable in tackling the unique problem of an underwater foe if you could be convinced.”

“Pragmatism, was it?”

Jaina winced. “In part,” she admitted. “I _was_ worried, but I needed more than personal reasons to justify coming back.”

The smell of coffee heralded Taelia’s return with a large tray and steaming mugs. “Frændi! You’re out of milk,” she said, addressing Cyrus. She set the tray down on the dining table, a big circular piece to the left of the kitchen.

Flynn hurried to snap up a mug and added three sugar cubes.

Jaina blinked, the word rattling something loose in her thoughts, “uncle?”

Taelia smiled and brought over an appropriately sized mug for Cyrus. “Yes, I’m from Lordaeron originally. Father sent me here when the Scourge struck, and Cyrus took me in.”

“I see.”

 _“_ It’s not a big deal. Life here has been good, until recently anyway.”

That certainly explained Taelia’s accent, as if it were on a permanent walking tour between Tiragarde and Drustvar.

Cyrus patted her on the shoulder with murmured thanks in vrykul for the coffee. “Aye, but we’ll have a better time discussing this tomorrow. I’d like to get everything we know together, something you and I can do tonight.” He tilted his head back. “Flynn!”

The man in question spun around mid-sip, brows raised. “Mm-hmm?”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Do me a favour and sniff around the Ashvane docks later, see what you hear in light of this _eventful_ day.”

Flynn swallowed his coffee. “I can absolutely do that,” he said, moving out of the way to let the Battlelord and the Farseer get a mug. He peered curiously at both and lingered more on the latter. “Hey, you’re a _tauren_ , right? We get lots of folk passing through Freehold but not many of your people.”

“Oh?” said Marahdo, towering over Flynn as easily as Cyrus in his brassy chainmail and dark leathers. Any intimidation he may have been able to cause was immediately diffused by the yellow primroses woven into his mane. “Freehold, is that some kind of pirate cove?”

Flynn grinned. “Yes! How’d you know?”

Marahdo smiled. “Lucky guess, and that makes sense then, we aren’t really ‘sea people’ at the best of times and make even worse pirates.”

As the two chatted, the tension in the room broke, and the day finally seemed to catch up to Jaina. She exhaled slowly and unhitched her staff from her back, setting it by the hearth before she sank down into the armchair across from Cyrus, similarly sized. It nearly swallowed her, but it was comfortable.

Taelia moved away to offer the rangers coffee, or whatever it was ‘elven mainlanders’ preferred—they seemed amused more than anything that a living person even thought to offer them something.

Cyrus caught her eye. “You and yours should keep your heads down for tonight,” he said gently, “everyone will be on edge. Best you get some shut-eye.”

She leaned her head back against the chair, closing her eyes, hands limp in her lap. “Our escape will set off alarms,” she sighed. “They’ll be looking for us.”

“Not for a while yet, and Priscilla won’t want to look like she couldn’t handle you. She made a mistake, a big one. Admitting that will hurt her.”

“She almost did.”

“Hm?”

Jaina opened her eyes and noted that Sylvanas wasn’t near her anymore but had silently moved to the dining table, where the tray of coffee was. Her heart tried to pull in two directions.

She cleared her throat. “Priscilla almost did handle me,” she said quietly. “If it wasn’t for Sylvanas, I would still be in that wagon.”

Cyrus looked into his coffee. “You could’ve broken out yourself if you wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“No one ever fixed anything by throwing themselves on a pyre for _someone else’s_ fuck up.”

Jaina blinked, staring at him.

He sighed heavily and got to his feet. “You must be starving. I’ll put something together.”

Without waiting for confirmation, he turned and trudged off to the kitchen, leaving her alone with the implication that a born and bred Kul Tiran, someone who had once looked up to her father no less, known him as a friend, _agreed_ that he had been in the wrong. That she was right to do what she did.

She was glad to be sitting down already.

Sylvanas returned with one of the mugs, holding it out. There was an inscrutable look on her face.

Jaina numbly took the coffee and murmured, “thank you.”

She started to turn away, and Jaina caught her wrist. Sylvanas paused but said nothing, still unreadable other than the perk of her ears.

Taking a breath, Jaina gave her wrist a gentle squeeze and said, “thank you for not letting me drown, and I’m sorry.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Stop apologising to me,” she said, low and terse.

Jaina looked away and pulled her hand back, biting her lip to stop herself from saying it again.

After a moment, Sylvanas spoke again, and her voice was softer. “This is the least I can do. Eat something, try to get some rest. My rangers and I will see how we can help prepare for tomorrow.”

She turned away too quickly to stop.

Jaina sank into the pillows of the armchair and tried to just enjoy the coffee. It tasted of home, a Kul Tiran speciality aged in _bourbon_ casks judging by the notes, and with just enough sweetness from a single sugar cube.

* * *

Flynn Fairwind was a remarkably easygoing man for interacting with a group of undead elves he’d never met before, something he blithely waved off when Cyndia cracked and brought it up out of sheer, perplexed curiosity.

_“Oh! That’s nothing. I’ve been to Drustvar far too many times to be squeamish. Besides, you lot seem perfectly lucid.”_

Sylvanas filed that little factoid away for later.

Skulking through the shadows of Boralus revealed a city slowly buckling under the weight of fear and uncertainty. Cyrus was not exaggerating in his talk of ritual murders and strange preachers. Jaina’s return took up a vast swathe of conversation, but still, people spoke of what came before, the ongoing problems, and how House Proudmoore _wasn’t_ handling it.

If anything, Jaina’s unexpected return seemed to inflame that sentiment.

The warning may have offered time to let the initial shock wear off, let people prepare, but there was no way of knowing whether it would have helped or not. All they could do was move forward and deal with what was in front of them.

Chatter at a taphouse near the Ashvane dockyards made it clear the Lady of the House was furious about a delivery gone south. Their people had no idea where the package was, and Priscilla had already lashed someone over it—it was easy enough to assume what they were talking about.

Throughout the grumbling of Ashvane’s people, they scattered disparaging chatter about the Lord Admiral and how Lady Ashvane should have been in charge long before now but that it wouldn’t take much longer to change that.

House Ashvane was pushing a narrative that the Proudmoores couldn’t protect Kul Tiras, that theirs was a House of weak wills and traitorous blood. The Fleet went missing under their watch, people were being murdered, and pirates were growing bolder by the day.

However, the majority in Boralus still seemed to support House Proudmoore as there was too much mistrust for the increasingly cruel and monetarily focused Ashvane. But if Priscilla applied enough pressure in just the right places, that support would crumble, and she was well on her way to doing it by the sounds of things.

The conversation inevitably returned to the day’s events, however. In the late hours of the night, Sylvanas stood inconspicuously outside a dockside pub, listening in to such chatter when a quiet fell over the patrons.

A young man began to sing, soft and mournful.

“‘Beware, beware the Daughter of the Sea. Beware,’ I heard him cry.”

Sylvanas raised a brow at Jaina’s epithet in song and turned her head slightly towards the singing.

Forlorn strings joined the voice as he sang of blood-soaked shores and dead sailors, followed by the rest of the pub’s band in a haunting tune. The lyrics spoke of betrayal and mourning on a national level, a wound in the hearts and minds of Kul Tiras, so profound and widely felt that as the song progressed, more and more of the pub joined the singing until it was a chorus.

It threw the meaning of that name into sharp relief, so heavy and cutting it was a wonder Jaina didn’t flinch at hearing it.

She eyed the man leading the song, a lanky thing too young to have been at Theramore, but certainly old enough to have lost someone he cared deeply about, a father, perhaps.

As the song came to an end, a subdued energy filled the pub as everyone seemed to take a moment of silence for those lost, heads dipped, eyes distant, but slowly the clink of glasses returned, and conversation rumbled back to life.

Sylvanas pushed away from the door and began to make her way back to the Harbourmaster’s house, her thoughts wandering.

Jaina only once spoke of that day to her after a nightmare brought it to the surface during their time in Icecrown. Something about proximity to past failures. It was part of what motivated Jaina to fight as hard as she did to keep the peace because to do otherwise would mean proving her father right and rendering the blood spilt absolutely wasted.

Jaina had killed her father for peace. Spurned her homeland for peace. She argued for peace again and again and again, and almost every time, she was ignored, rejected, or scorned for being too ‘naïve’ of all things.

Until _Garrosh_.

A hot coil of rage still burned in her chest for Katherine, but Sylvanas thought back to Priscilla throwing Jaina’s epithet with all the weight it carried, all the _pain_ it caused Jaina, and imagined in languid detail how it would feel to tear that woman’s heart from her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your days are thoroughly numbered Priscilla.
> 
> Also, Kul Tirans aging coffee beans in casks is a neat little detail that stuck in my head from Catfirebrand's [The Lighthouse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202385/chapters/63766945), please go read it, it's lovely!


	13. Management  Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina has a late night talk with the Battlelord, and the gang begins their investigation into Ashvane's business...

Sleep did not come easily to Jaina. She tossed and turned, trying to quiet her thoughts but grabbing only a handful of hours before she gave up.

Sitting up with a sigh, she took in the modest and comfortable guest room given to her, worrying a piece of the soft, green duvet between her fingers. Moonlight filtered through the steel lattice of a small window, cold and sharp.

The room was one of several. The house was old and big, intended to be enough for a reasonably sized family, but Cyrus never did have partners that Jaina could remember and obviously didn’t have any now.

Still, Taelia was a kind, practical girl, and the two seemed to have a good relationship.

 _Fordragon_.

The name came up over dinner. Jaina found herself glad that Sylvanas was already out getting the lay of the land with her rangers. It worried her, but she knew they could stay out of sight.

She wasn’t sure what Sylvanas’s reaction would have been, just that she didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to think about Bolvar or Icecrown. It was too much right now.

Thankfully, neither Keleria nor Marahdo said anything either, tactfully avoiding the conversation as if they weren’t there to see it happen. It was a discussion for a later date when Jaina didn’t feel quite so rattled.

Dealing with her home’s fracturing state was a heavy enough burden to bear right now, as Cyrus laid everything out after dishes were washed and a strong, herbal tea was brewing.

With the fleet missing and Tandred along with it, her mother must have felt like she had lost everything only for Jaina to turn up with the very people who took Derek and Daelin from her, as far as she was concerned.

House Stormsong had withdrawn to the monastery and the valley, responding less and less since the fleet disappeared, until the silence was maddening. Even the farmers of the valley weren’t sure what was going on. They only had rumours to go on, of strange shadows in the water and people standing in the surf at night, glass-eyed and babbling.

House Berglund was talking less too, but Cyrus put that down to their pirate troubles. Some of the Irontide Raiders took over Chandlery Wharf, kidnapping who they could and massacring the rest before going on a pillaging spree. Then there was talk of effigies springing up throughout the forest, atop mountains, amidst the bones and ruins of old battlegrounds—effigies to the Blighted King.

Trouble was brewing everywhere, but if they didn’t deal with the poison at home first, they wouldn’t get _anywhere._

A dull ache made itself known along her spine as she pulled a plain robe on over her shift and slipped out of her room in search of water.

Everything felt painfully quiet, and Jaina paused in the hallway, wondering if Sylvanas and the rangers were still out. She reached out with her magic and sensed four ‘pings’ of familiar necromantic energy in the floor above, one much stronger than the others. There was a third ‘attic’ floor which was really just a level connecting them to the main road, another office space and a room Cyrus used to entertain friends. Perhaps the Rangers were playing cards to pass the time again.

She half expected to feel void energy somewhere nearby but knew that wouldn’t show up if it was being intentionally obscured. She would need to be more aggressive in her scrying.

Jaina briefly considered seeking Sylvanas out to talk about what happened now that they weren’t in immediate danger, but the thought sent a hot and cold prickle skittering down the back of her neck. She wrung her hands and frowned, wishing she could find the exact right words to set things straight between them, but she couldn’t.

She was still too busy absorbing the day, taking in the hatred in her mother’s eyes and words, how _angry_ Sylvanas was when she looked at her. That unreadable expression on Sylvanas’s face when she brought Jaina the coffee, exactly as she liked it, knowing it would soothe her.

Jaina forced out a long, exhausted sigh and rubbed at her face. No, she barely had her wits about her. She definitely would not be able to handle talking to Sylvanas about all of this just yet. She needed water and time to think.

Quietly padding downstairs, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she found the Battlelord sitting by the fire, burned down to a low crackle.

“Lady Proudmoore?” Keleria asked quietly, starry eyes flicking in her direction. She was out of her armour, sitting in a dark sleeveless shirt and pants, her towering frame rendered _almost_ slight by the drust-sized armchair.

It had to be strange for the Battlelord to be awake to accommodate the rest of them, nocturnal instincts pressing her to be active at night.

“I just needed some water,” Jaina said after swallowing the dryness on her tongue.

Keleria hummed noncommittally, returning her attention to the fire.

Jaina took a glass of water from the kitchen and considered going back to her room, only to sit in the armchair across from Keleria. She couldn’t hide the wince as she did so, but Keleria made no comment.

They sat in silence for a moment before Jaina asked, “Are you alright?”

Keleria took a deep breath and answered without taking her eyes off the fire. “I will be, eventually. I was there when our world first shattered because Azshara and her ilk brought us to the brink. It is fitting for her to return when the world feels ready to teeter on the edge of oblivion again.”

“You survived it then. You’ll survive it now. The kaldorei are nothing if not resilient.”

“I believe I will need more time to fully absorb that, but I appreciate you saying it.”

Keleria finally looked at her again.

Jaina tensed under that piercing stare of stars and moonlight, but she refused to look away.

The night elf tilted her head. “Are you well, Lady Proudmoore?”

“As well as can be expected. Being here makes everything feel raw again like it happened yesterday.”

“I know that feeling well, but I meant physically.”

Jaina froze, acutely aware of how she was holding herself, whether she was sitting awkwardly or not. She found no judgement or pity in Keleria’s eyes, and the warrior did not press, instead waiting patiently for her to answer if she wished to.

Deflating, Jaina sighed and tapped her finger on the rim of her glass. “What do you see when you look at me?” she asked quietly. “I know those eyes of yours can detect magic differently. Do you see anything _abnormal_?”

Keleria tilted her head the other way, eyes narrowing in focus. The twin moons of her pupils shrank down to near needle points, brighter still than any of the stars in her eyes. “Volatility,” she said slowly. “It is difficult to discern, subtle enough to be lost in the glare of your magic most of the time. It is as if something inside you has been jolted out of place by a millimetre.”

A short, bitter laugh shoved its way out of Jaina’s throat in a huff of air. “Are you sure it’s just a millimetre?” she asked, trying not to sound incredulous. “Because it felt like I was gutted, stuffed with hot irons, and set on fire for good measure.”

Keleria’s smile was full of empathy, the look of someone who knew pain intimately. “If it was more than that, I would have noticed and said something sooner.”

Jaina looked at the fire, stomach writhing like a basket of eels. She didn’t want to think about it or talk about it, but she knew that was part of the problem, and it wasn’t like her mind didn’t backslide of its own accord whenever it damn well pleased.

She wished, desperately, she could move on from Theramore—it felt like an anchor around her neck.

Absently she touched the space her necklace used to be, and her throat closed.

Keleria spoke gently, “I would suggest staying in Suramar a while when all is said and done. The shal’dorei have more experience than any in treating arcane afflictions. If we are lucky, it may even be as simple as partaking in the arcan’dor. Perhaps your energy simply needs to be re-balanced after that influx of raw power.”

The notion that it could possibly be that simple was tantalising in the extreme, and Jaina was sorely tempted to dismiss it on that basis alone, but she eyed the night elf across from her.

The low firelight cast Keleria’s battle-scarred face half in shadow, warming the cool, indigo hue of her skin and midnight blue of her hair. Keleria was ancient, the passage of time and the exhaustion that came with it weighing on her shoulders, her people were scattered, and her home was destroyed, and still, she found the energy to offer kindness and hope to someone else _._

To dismiss that would be cruel and ungrateful, so Jaina swallowed against the swell in her throat, cleared it, and said, “Perhaps I will, when this is over. Thank you, Battlelord.”

“You may call me by my name if you wish it.”

“Then I would ask you to do the same.”

“Very well, Lady Jaina.”

She huffed a brief bit of laughter at the lingering formality, which prompted a small, crooked half-smile from the old warrior.

Keleria eased onto her feet, slowly twisting at the waist and stretching her arms from side to side. “There will always be a future. Time stops for no one. The only choice is whether we are there to see it,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “and I intend to see many more moons yet.”

“How do you do it? All this time, all you’ve seen, but you and the rest of the Council seem so… unassailable.”

“Because we must be, would any of you have listened to us otherwise?”

Jaina pursed her lips. “Probably not.”

Keleria smiled grimly. “Try to sleep again, Lady Jaina. I imagine we will be quite busy tomorrow.”

Jaina bit her lip, and before the warrior could get far, she said, “wait.”

“Yes?”

“You and the Farseer are skilled in alchemy. What kind?”

Keleria arched a long brow, ears lifting. “I can help with common ailments, but my strengths are in experimental brewing, battle elixirs and the like. Marahdo is a master of medicine.”

Nodding slowly, Jaina settled back against the armchair. “Thank you, Keleria.”

Keleria canted her head and disappeared up the stairs.

Jaina sat for a while and drank her water, pondering the conversation and how she could even broach the subject with the Farseer. She hadn’t wanted to reach out before; it was too vulnerable a subject, and part of her recoiled at the idea of relying on someone from the Horde for help in such a matter.

However, everything she knew of Marahdo Thunderhorn painted a picture of a kind, stalwart soul who worked tirelessly for peace. He was someone who had put his life and standing in the Horde at risk time and again, culminating when he stood back to back with Keleria between the Horde and the Alliance, in the heart of Garrosh’s crumbling fortress, shoulder to shoulder with other champions pleading with their leaders to end the bloodshed _now_ when they had the chance. To choose better for themselves and for the world at large.

Such words had been anathema to her at the time and her stomach twisted at the memory, at how angry she was at Keleria, at Varian, at Garrosh, Sylvanas, the rest of the Horde, and at herself for letting any of it happen in the first place.

Her younger self would be horrified by her.

The Farseer was no Garrosh. He was as far from the likes of Garrosh as it was possible to be.

Lost in thought, Jaina only moved when she felt herself beginning to nod off, and the fire had reduced to scant embers. She rinsed out her glass and returned to bed, saving herself a problem in the morning.

The armchairs were comfortable but not _that_ comfortable.

* * *

After breakfast, they convened around the dining table to decide how best to proceed, a well-marked map of Tiragarde spread between them.

Flynn zeroed in on the swell of activity over at the Ashvane Foundry, which was receiving a lot of new product from a mine the House bought rights to a couple of months ago. His sources made it clear that it wasn’t ore but some new material.

He looked pointedly at the necklaces Keleria and Marahdo wore.

“Azerite,” said the Farseer.

“Exactly, now,” he paused, setting a pistol on the table that looked modified, reinforced to hold volatile ammunition. “I managed to swipe this from a drunk Ashvane fella the night before you lot turned up. Even gave it a couple of test shots.” He gave it a pointed look of annoyance. “It knocked me on my arse.”

“I thought you were used to that?” Taelia smirked.

Flynn sent her an overly betrayed look, a hand on his heart.

“Point being,” said Cyrus, “that Ashvane is manufacturing weapons with this stuff, and our military hasn’t heard so much as a whiff about it. If just a pinch can turn regular shot explosive, I don’t want to consider what else it can do, and I don’t want to find out the hard way. We need to find out where they’re sending this stuff when they’re done with it.”

Cyrus handed a ferry pass to each of them. “You’ll need these to get around,” he explained before addressing Taelia. “I need you to make your rounds and inform the guard to be on the lookout for suspicious weapons being smuggled into Boralus.”

Taelia’s brow knit. “You don’t think Ashvane is preparing for an outright coup, do you?”

“If she cannot bend the people to her will,” said Sylvanas, standing with her arms crossed, “then she may choose to break them instead.”

Taelia rubbed the back of her neck. “I hate this,” she sighed before drawing herself up and saluting. “Stay safe, all of you.” She picked up her war hammer from where she left it by the front door on her way out.

Sylvanas looked at Cyrus. “Is Ashvane’s entire house full of sycophants, or are there people who oppose her?”

“There was an attempt a month ago. A young cousin of hers tried to duel her for leadership of the House, Sally Ashvane. She did it properly and threw down a legitimate challenge, but Priscilla didn’t even humour it. She had the girl clapped in irons and dragged off. Not to Tol Dagor mind, I don’t know where she vanished to or if she still draws breath.”

“And this girl, _she_ had supporters?”

“Aye, a glut of them fled the House when Priscilla attempted to do a bit of _cleaning_ , been keeping their heads down.”

Sylvanas hummed thoughtfully. She glanced at Jaina, who immediately tensed, likely expecting her to suggest the same challenge against Katherine. Even if Jaina _could_ be convinced, it would almost certainly break her, and Sylvanas would not ask that of her.

Besides, the sight of _Jaina_ forcibly removing her mother from power would do absolutely nothing for Kul Tiras’s perception of her or the Horde and Alliance behind her. They would be lucky if the nation didn’t immediately tear itself apart.

Sylvanas returned her gaze to Cyrus and asked, “Where is the mine Ashvane purchased?”

Cyrus looked over the map briefly before pointing to an area north of the foundry, up in the hills. “Strangest thing is it’s been spent for decades, until a couple of weeks after the firestorm when Ashvane bought it for pennies.”

“And began hauling azerite from it.”

“She claimed to have found a new iron seam, likely tampered with ledgers to make that seem legitimate.”

Sylvanas looked at her rangers. “Go to the mine, see what you can find, and if possible, disrupt their operations,” she said, adding coldly, “ _discreetly_. Return here when you are finished.”

“As you command,” Kalira responded, saluting in tandem with Cyndia and Velonara, and they left.

Cyrus grunted in approval. “Good luck.”

Jaina disguised herself, Keleria, and Marahdo, but Sylvanas handled her own illusion. She had seen enough to replicate an unremarkable appearance by Kul Tiran standards, still a hunter but just a little more refined and put together than Jaina made her appear.

The Battlelord and the Farseer were made into half-drust for their size.

Flynn led the way through Boralus, bringing them to a ferryman who didn’t ask much more than where to take them.

The Sound was calm as they slipped across it, but the sky was overcast with clouds that sat dark and heavy.

Flynn talked the whole way to Eastpoint Station about some inane adventure or another, getting a few polite responses out of the Battlelord. The Farseer was friendlier and engaged in the conversation, though he remained mindful of the ferryman’s ear.

Sylvanas found herself watching Jaina, who was, in turn, watching the city she was born in slip away with a forlorn, distant look. Sylvanas felt the urge to reach out again and pushed it aside, ignoring the ache in her chest.

They made it to Eastpoint and disembarked, taking the road up to the Foundry until Flynn stopped and whistled. An answering whistle came off the left side of the road, and they walk through a thick patch of pines to find a small cabin hidden a little ways from the road, smoke rising from the chimney.

A scrawny, hard-faced human man named Cagney greeted them from the stairs, some old acquaintance of Cyrus willing to risk his neck snooping on Ashvane’s business. From a safe distance, of course, he was getting on in years.

“They upped security since that strike a week back,” he said in the gravelly voice of a life-long smoker. “Bunch of goons from Freehold are keepin’ everyone workin’ ‘til they drop, even the kids.”

“There are children in there?” Jaina interjected, her brows high.

Cagney grimaced. “Orphans _generously_ plucked up by House Ashvane, a nice bit of PR for Priscilla,” he said, sneering, “probably thought they were getting a real home, but Ashvane just wants more bodies.”

Sylvanas asked, “Have you any idea where the shipments are being sent?”

He shrugged, giving them all a slow appraisal. “Not a clue, _I_ ain’t stupid enough to go in there. But if I _were_ , I’d check the labels. Watch out for Williams and Farthing, they run the place, and they’re mean pieces o’ shit.”

Sylvanas raised a brow. “A description wouldn’t go amiss.”

Cagney sighed and assented. “Williams is the Taskmaster, ugly as sin half-drust fella, short black hair, always trompin’ about with that big fuckin’ hammer on his shoulder. Farthing is the man in charge of production, the Forgemaster, and a skinny little weasel. Never seen him without his blast goggles or out of his overalls, always has this big tool belt on him.”

“How careful do you want us to be here?” asked Keleria, more to Jaina than Cagney.

Jaina tensed and looked at him, her brow furrowing deeply. “How bad is it in there?”

His eyes darkened. “Bad. Some folk were shot the other day for trying to walk out. They made the kids watch. So fuck the lot of them.”

They agreed to split to cover more ground, Keleria and Marahdo taking the foundry’s western side while she and Jaina covered the east. It was a miserable pit of heat and smoke, clashing violently with the crisp, frozen air outside its soot-stained walls.

The inside of those walls was as grim as Cagney made it out to be, most of the workers looked exhausted, and many bore signs of abuse, instinctively cringing when a guard passed them by or barked orders.

A faint but distinctive scent clung to air the deeper they went, that oil-gasoline stench, again too subtle for any of the humans to notice. The thrum of azerite was everywhere, which at least made it easy to _find_ the shipments but didn’t change the number of eyes they had to avoid.

Marahdo made use of small water and earth elementals to cause mischief and distraction, and Jaina utilised her magic to a similar end, sowing paranoia and uncertainty amongst the guards to the point that it made getting people out almost seamless.

They ushered workers and children alike off to the western shipping dock where Flynn awaited with a boat.

When the eastern side was almost clear, and the guards were thoroughly confused, they slipped into the largest warehouse without anyone the wiser. Jaina didn’t even have to employ invisibility.

Sylvanas cracked open a crate to find sealed bags of refined azerite powder packed inside. Touching it caused a loud, electric snap, disrupting her illusion and sending a jolt of power up her arm that was jarring but not _wholly_ unwelcome. Her ears pinned back at the sensation.

Jaina was at her side immediately, worry evident on her face. “Are you alright?”

Sylvanas glanced at her, slowly flexing the affected hand. Once again, the destructive potential was at the forefront of her mind, the advantages obvious but the downsides insurmountable. This was not something they could afford to use in warfare. To do so would destroy them. She could feel that certainty in her bones.

She clenched her hand, shaking off the buzzing sensation. “I am fine,” she said, recasting her illusion in a ripple of shadows.

Jaina stared at her a moment too long but said nothing. Instead, she checked the label and quietly cursed. “No destination, of course. Why would it be that easy?” she muttered.

Sylvanas opened another crate to find blades already treated with azerite, ready to be distributed. “Someone here knows where they are being sent,” she said, carefully replacing the lid, “the man overseeing this miserable pit, perhaps.”

“Williams, I believe his office is above us, actually.”

“How unfortunate for him.”

Jaina followed her to the far end of the warehouse and up the stairs to a door with a frosted glass window. The most she could make out through it was a dark mass sitting at a desk. She knocked sharply, prompting some swearing on the other side and the shifting of that dark mass.

The door was all but thrown open by an angry, brawny man.

“I told you gobshites to—” Williams didn’t get to finish as he took a steel-plated kick to the groin and a gauntleted punch to the nose when he doubled over, knocking him down but not out.

Sylvanas stepped into the room, and Jaina closed the door behind them, sealing it with an arcane lock. She threw a sound dampening ward up for good measure when Williams began to swear and hiss profusely once the air rushed back into his lungs.

Holding his shattered nose, he blinked up at her through the tears and kicked at her. She easily stepped around the attempt.

Kneeling next to his head, Sylvanas smiled coldly, fangs bared. “Where are you sending the azerite?”

Williams spat at her, which got him a broken knee when Sylvanas lashed out with a tendril.

He did not scream, or whimper, or try to get away from her—he started to _laugh_ , deep, throaty laughter that echoed unnaturally. The room grew thick with a metallic, oozing stench.

Spiked ice swept up Jaina’s arms.

Sylvanas tensed, smoke bleeding from her skin.

When Williams looked at her again, his eyes were solid black pools. “ _Sk’shuul yoxuun ez naggwa’fssh_!” he gurgled through violet brine and lunged. He barely missed a swing at her face and shattered his thick desk instead in a heavy crash of wood.

The man threw himself after her like a feral thing, swinging and clawing and gnashing his blackened teeth, jaw nearly unhinging in the effort.

A burst of icicles slammed him against the wall by the door, too focused on destroying _her_ to pay attention to the very powerful Archmage in the room. His body twitched and slumped, leaking more brine than blood, but when he went still, the darkness faded from his eyes, and his fluids ran crimson again.

Jaina looked at her, eyes still white, and frowned. “Are you alright?”

Sylvanas grunted and turned away from the body to begin searching the office, starting with the destroyed desk. “There must be something of note here,” she said.

With a soft sigh, Jaina helped her search the room, digging through cupboards and shelves until a false bottom was discovered in one of his filing cabinets. Jaina pulled out a bundle of letters, notes, and reminders, most of it correspondence with Priscilla, instructions for the Foundry, where the materials were to be sent, through what port, and most unsettling of all, what to do with the workers once they were too broken or spent to keep going.

That particular instruction read: _‘To the monastery. Let the Tidemother give them a real purpose.’_

Jaina’s jaw worked as if to flatten her teeth. “This is all wrong,” she said grimly, “the Tidemother is supposed to be gentle, but they’re talking about her like she’s a dark, ravenous god.”

“Either she has taken a turn for the worse, or some other entity is taking advantage of her devotees.”

“I’d prefer the latter. But we have what we need here.”

Jaina pulled out her communication crystal. They were heavier than they looked, about the size of a pocket watch, and connected by a chain to the inside of a belt-mounted pouch.

She traced the number six on its surface, and it pulsed with a soft purple glow.

After a moment, the Battlelord answered in a quiet but firm voice. “Lady Jaina?”

“We know which port they’re using to transport the azerite and the delivery destination.”

“We have as many samples of their work as we can carry. There are still a handful of children to escort out of the Foundry. If you and Lady Windrunner could be so kind as to give the guards something else to focus on?”

“We can do that. Get out when you can, and we will rendezvous at Eastpoint.”

A cross dropped the call.

Sylvanas raised a brow at her. “I trust you have something in mind already?”

Jaina smiled coolly and dismissed the arcane lock on the door.

Sylvanas followed her onto the catwalk overlooking the warehouse floor and a window looking out at the Foundry proper. It provided a good view of almost everything.

Breathing deeply, Jaina lifted her hand and called forth a larger than usual and ice plated water elemental, drawing most of the guards to the eastern side of the Foundry. The remaining workers almost immediately took the opportunity to get out of dodge, and most helped the remaining children escape with them while the Ashvane thugs were distracted.

Sylvanas looked to the Foundry’s far western end and noted that Flynn, Keleria and Marahdo had pushed off from the docks. “They’re away.”

Jaina nodded, watching the chaos unfold below. “Right,” she murmured, nodding again. “Right. Back to Eastpoint then.”

They quickly made their way down, and with a twist of her hand, Jaina cloaked them from sight, allowing them to make an open dash back to the station without anyone the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to write a 14th chapter that is so full of yearning™ 🥺


	14. By the Roadside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm blows in across Kul Tiras, and comfort is sought after a late night disturbance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready to start their week with some classic Unresolved Sexual Tension™?
> 
>  **CW:** Mild suicide ideation and a flippant gallows remark.

Taelia met them at the station astride her personal gryphon, Galeheart, who regarded all of them as he might have regarded some choice pieces of salmon. Thankfully, he kept his beak to himself.

They directed the workers back to Boralus with the children in tow, and Taelia pointed them to a friend of Cyrus who would take them in until a better, permanent solution was worked out.

Jaina contemplated the correspondence they found as she stared across the grey waters of the Sound. She remembered Priscilla as a long-time friend of Katherine’s, but something had to have changed since she was last in Kul Tiras. She wondered if it was Old God manipulation or if it had festered since Theramore, perhaps a bit of both.

“Proudmoore.”

Sylvanas’s quiet voice by her ear pulled her out of her thoughts. She shivered and not from the cold, blinking back to the present.

Right, they were discussing what to do next, and everyone was looking at her expectantly. She cleared her throat.

“Flynn, see if you can find anything else at Bridgeport and take the Battlelord with you.”

“Bridgeport’s protected by a garrison of Proudmoore marines,” he said, stroking his moustache with a scowl. “Ashvane must be feeling mighty confident to move this kind of merchandise right under Katherine’s nose.”

Shaking off his scowl, he beamed confidently. “We’ll let you know if we find anything, won’t we, Miss Sharparrow?” He turned his grin on the Battlelord, who grunted in affirmation.

“If I may?” said Marahdo.

Jaina lifted her brows. “What is it?”

The drust mask he wore creased in a deeply troubled frown. “I felt a disturbance almost as soon as we arrived in Kul Tiras, but it is stronger now, like a buzzing in my bones,” he said, eyes losing focus momentarily, “it feels almost exactly like the Wound. There is a rupture in the earth that shouldn’t be here, and I fear it is not the only one. I wish to investigate it if you have no need of me elsewhere.”

“Is it the Ashvane mine you’re feeling?”

“No. This feels surface level, exposed.”

“Very well, see what you can do about it, and then find us at Freehold.”

Sylvanas eyed her, but Jaina pressed on, addressing Taelia. “I need you to bring these to Cyrus,” she said, holding out the bundle of letters and documents, “evidence of Ashvane’s cruelty, illegal manufacturing, and trafficking of people.”

“Aye, I’ll make sure they reach him safe and sound,” said Taelia, carefully taking the bundle and tucking it away in her satchel. “You remember where Freehold is, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll be sure to come find you after then.”

They walked together to Bridgeport and split there, leaving Keleria and Flynn to their investigations.

Marahdo left to find the breach, but not before Sylvanas warned him and the Battlelord to try and avoid coming into direct contact with the azerite unless they wanted their disguises to fail.

Jaina made a mental note to create a portable illusion for them when she had a moment, quietly berating herself for not thinking of it sooner.

Still, she and Sylvanas took the road south, a steady incline up the Winterdeep Basin, flanked by snow-capped mountains and split by an icy river that cascaded into the Sound. The further they got from Bridgeport, the thicker the pines grew, clustering and clinging wherever they could, and the sky continued to look miserable.

Jaina glanced over her shoulder now and then to see Boralus and the vastness of the Sound, dotted by a sparse scattering of boats. Her eyes inevitably drifted to the Keep, each time causing her heart to ache until she couldn’t stand to look anymore or risk breaking.

Without looking at her, Sylvanas asked, “what is Fate’s End?”

Jaina blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sylvanas still didn’t look at her. “I overheard Ashvane’s people mention it. _Priscilla_ intended to send you there.”

A cold, dreadful feeling flooded her stomach. “It… it’s where our most abhorrent criminals are sent, a cursed islet just off the coast in Stormsong Valley. People who are left there are dragged into the Blighted Lands.”

Sylvanas looked at her then, scrutiny written all over her face. “And what, pray tell, are the Blighted Lands?”

Taking a long breath to calm her nerves, Jaina kept her eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. “It’s a realm of torment, death, and endless nightmares. The drust call it Thros, the worst monsters of their history are imprisoned there, including the last king they ever had, Gorak Tul.”

Sylvanas arched a long brow. “And you send criminals to this place?”

Her throat tightened, and she muttered numbly, “The ones who deserve nothing less, traitors who threaten our safety, and monsters who forsake all decency in what they do to others.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Ashvane wanted that, not your mother.”

“She may as well have. You heard her. I’m nothing to her.”

“Words said in anguish by a woman blindsided.”

Jaina didn’t answer that. She didn’t want to lull herself into the hope that her mother may not have meant what she said, that there was still love to be had there. Better to accept what had been made so abundantly clear already. It wasn’t as if she expected to be welcomed home with open arms.

The sky began to spit as they walked, quickly thickening into sleet.

Sylvanas looked at her sidelong. “You should not stay out in this.”

Jaina sighed, wondering how cold Sylvanas’s ears were, not that she would admit to it bothering her. She was always cold, she would argue; what did it matter if she got soaked and iced on top of that, it wouldn’t _kill_ her. But Jaina had seen her linger near hearths and campfires often enough to know that warmth was still desired. Undeath had very much _not_ taken the elf out of her.

Jaina eyed the top of the long mountain road that would take them to Freehold. A large building perched at the apex of the pass, a place for travellers and hunters to congregate, rest, and blow off steam.

Making up her mind, Jaina nodded to herself. “ _We_ shouldn’t be out in this, you’re correct,” Jaina returned, ignoring the raised brow it got her. Instead, she stepped off the road under the canopy of an old, overbearing spruce, and impatiently gestured for Sylvanas to stand with her.

After a beat, Sylvanas moved under the tree.

Ignoring the slight tremor in her hand, Jaina closed her eyes and wove a teleportation spell, engulfing them both in a blue plume of crackling arcane. A shudder ran through her, and she opened her eyes, breathing a tiny sigh of relief at the lack of rubble and ashes greeting her.

Maybe one day, it wouldn’t even cross her mind, but not today, not yet.

They were at the top of the Winterdeep Pass, the basin below them, the lights of Boralus and various villages and towns twinkling dimly across Tiragarde.

Before them stood the Iceheart Manor, pressed against a snow-laden cliff face with a thorn-like peak rising behind it. It was an old, imposing building, with an open courtyard before the door and wrought iron fencing, an estate of some kind centuries ago, now a place of respite for people travelling the miserable southern climbs.

And just on the edge of respectable civilisation for few to ask questions about the people who passed through.

Jaina walked through the gate, and Sylvanas quietly followed. She stopped them under the curved awning and wove a simple spell, using her magic to wick most of the water off them, so they weren’t dripping all over the floor, the sensation of which caused Sylvanas to pull a face like a cat that sniffed a lemon.

Jaina _almost_ laughed at the sight.

Inside, the Manor was warm, instantly leeching the chill out of her bones as she took in the stained wood panelling and decorations that wouldn’t be out of place in a hunting lodge. There was such a place nearby, so it wasn’t a surprise.

A lanky, drust clerk sat behind a suitably sized counter, taking up one side of the entry hall, his dark eyes flitting over them. The wall behind him was filled with book laden shelves and a small closed cabinet. He leaned on the counter with crossed arms and an expectant look, pitch braids spilling over his lean shoulders.

Jaina nodded politely. “We’re just here until the storm passes.”

“Pub’s through the doors on the right,” he said, eyes flicking between them. “Come see me if you need to stay the night. The storm could be a while. Enjoy.”

She smiled stiffly and walked on through to a warm but empty foyer, with grand dual staircases curving up and away from each other. The smell of food coming from the open doors to their right caused Jaina’s stomach to quickly remind her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

An aproned drust woman by the bar noticed them enter and called out with a raised hand.

“Afternoon, ladies, horrible weather we’re having, huh?” she grinned. “Please, take a seat, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Jaina canted her head and walked to the far side of the pub floor, a booth set against a wall of windows. The benches were fitted with dark green leather, and black drapes framed the lattice window giving them an unobstructed view of the worsening storm outside. Sleet rattled against the glass, but not even a whisper of cold snuck through.

The smell of herbal smoke mixed with cooking meats and Jaina glanced at a table near the bar where two drust men sat smoking large pipes carved from bone, playing hnefatafl by the look of the board and its pieces. Not something she ever learned to play, but she’d seen it often enough when she was younger to recognise it.

Pushing her hood down, Jaina sagged a little into the comfortable booth. “We should send word,” she murmured.

Sylvanas glanced at her but said nothing, returning her eyes to the window. The human face she wore was pale and angular, with light blonde hair and steely blue eyes. How close it was to the way she looked in life, Jaina could only guess.

The storm flashed, rumbling at them a few seconds later.

Sighing, Jaina looked up at the approach of the drust woman. Like the man at the front, she was lanky with the same dark hair and eyes, similar facial features, probably siblings. “Now then, what can I get you?” she asked with a bright smile.

Jaina ordered a bowl of the venison stew they had on, with a flagon of sweet apple tea. The woman simply nodded when Sylvanas shook her head and left.

The silence stretched between them, and Jaina grew conscious of the fact that Sylvanas had all but pressed herself to her side of the booth, making sure they couldn’t accidentally touch. That caused her to make sure _her_ feet politely remained on her side too, and she tried to ignore the sting that realisation caused.

She could only assume Sylvanas was still angry with her and left the Banshee to her storm watching.

It didn’t take long to bring her meal, for which Jaina was grateful. She pushed everything else out of her mind, enjoying the rich, earthy taste of the venison, the fluffiness of the roll it came with, and the sweetness of her tea.

Feeling far more alive for the food, she managed to smile at the drust woman with a bit more feeling on her return. “Will that be all?”

“May we have a bottle of mead, actually?”

“Certainly, we have three varieties on hand right now. One made with rosehips, another with ginger, and a special reserve from Falconstrand.”

“The first one, thank you.”

She handled payment, and when the woman left, she noticed Sylvanas looking at her with a raised brow. “What? The storm isn’t letting up. I thought we could enjoy something.”

Sylvanas frowned lightly. “We?”

Jaina shrugged, trying not to fidget with her hands. “I know you like wine,” she said quietly, averting her eyes to the window. “Have you ever had mead?”

There were several beats of silence following that question that made Jaina’s stomach twist, wondering if Sylvanas took it as more of an insult than a peace offering.

Still, eventually, Sylvanas sighed and leaned on the table with her hands clasped. “No,” she murmured, “I never thought to try it. I can only presume you have.”

“Yes. It’s nice.”

“Then, I shall look forward to it.”

Tension unwound from her shoulders, and Jaina managed a genuine half-smile. Perhaps she hadn’t completely ruined their…

Her mind faltered at the word ‘relationship,’ as it so often did when it came to Sylvanas. What exactly they were now she couldn’t pinpoint, and the urge to ask again for the truth sat heavy in her thoughts, but this wasn’t the time or place to be selfish. They were here to save her home, and Sylvanas was here to help her despite being dropped in hot water because of her.

She considered herself lucky Sylvanas that was here at all after that and decided she did _not_ want to push her luck, at least not right now.

The bottle was brought with two silver cups, etched with patterns of ancient yew trees and stag skulls, and Jaina poured the first cup for Sylvanas, watching her take a cursory sip.

After a long moment of mulling over the taste, she hummed approvingly. “Pleasant.”

Jaina smiled and relaxed a bit more. She reached to pour some for herself, only for Sylvanas to take the bottle and pour it for her. Warmth bloomed in her chest, and she murmured a quiet thank you.

They settled into conversation, mostly about mead, which led to Jaina talking about the ungodly number of bees in Stormsong Valley and the vast array of honey varieties produced there. She even recounted when she was much younger and watched with great fascination as a beekeeper allowed himself to be temporarily smothered by a placid hive.

Sylvanas was quiet for the most part, coaxing her to talk more and more about better memories of home. They were things she hadn’t told Sylvanas before because talking about home always made her feel sad but somehow, even with circumstances being what they were, telling her all those little things _now_ felt right. The subtle smile on Sylvanas’s face only assured her of that.

It was well and truly dark out by the end of the bottle, and the storm showed no sign of going anywhere. At least a dozen more travellers filtered in from the horrendous weather for hot food and drink, filling the pub with a little more life.

Sylvanas curled her lip at the weather. “You should get some rest. We’re likely to be here all night.”

Sighing, Jaina slid out of the booth, feeling only a slight buzz from the half-bottle of mead. Sylvanas almost certainly felt nothing in comparison. It would take enough to kill a tauren to start affecting her, ‘an impractical waste of good liquor’ she’d said once, but Jaina was glad that she still enjoyed the taste enough to indulge sometimes.

She pretended not to have noticed how Sylvanas only drank when she did as if she were concerned about taking more than was ‘fair.’ Jaina would have given her the whole bottle if not for the clumsy obviousness of such a gesture.

A glance outside showed the sleet had transitioned to thick, blustering snow. Tomorrow would be a mess to walk in.

She frowned lightly. “I’ll see about a room.”

Sylvanas looked at her for a second, guarded and unsure before it vanished under a neutral mask. She nodded wordlessly.

Jaina wanted to immediately decipher that look, and she staunchly ignored it, walking out of the pub and back to the lobby.

As expected, the lanky clerk only asked enough to provide her with a room key from the little cabinet behind him, accept payment, and offer directions.

They walked up the foyer stairs and turned left down a hall of varnished hardwood, with magic sconces giving off a warm light. The key was for the last door on the right, which unlocked with a comfortingly heavy clunk, and the moment the door was shut behind them, she exhaled a long, deep breath.

The storm howled outside. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated both the room and the elf in the middle of it. Sylvanas dropped her illusion as soon as the door closed.

Jaina fumbled momentarily to find the light switch, pressing her fingertips to a small panel that lit up with an ice blue rune. A glass lamp blinked on overhead.

The room was hardwood flooring like the rest of the Manor but furnished comfortably, with a fireplace, a pair of leather armchairs before it atop a large, thick rug, a door to a washroom in the far corner, and a large bed across from the fireplace.

Just the one.

An assumption on the clerk’s part, one she failed to clarify otherwise or even consider at the time, one that sent heat rising up Jaina’s neck and one she did _not_ feel equipped to unpack then and there. Sylvanas’s little remark had been enough to dredge up far too many nights spent lingering on that very concept.

Not that they ever got that far.

Tides, they hadn’t even kissed, but not for lack of _wanting._

Jaina swallowed hard and excused herself to the washroom.

Thankfully, Sylvanas did not see fit to comment on her burning cheeks.

* * *

Sylvanas busied herself with lighting the fireplace until it was crackling away and warming the room, ears pinned back as she fought her wandering thoughts into submission to little success.

That Jaina was embarrassed at the implication shouldn’t have stung. It was to be expected. It was precisely why her comment at the wagon worked, a little bit of outrage to spur Jaina into action.

How dare she suggest such a thing, after all.

Her mind drifted to all the times in Northrend she noticed Jaina’s eyes drop to her lips, brushing it off at the time as self-serving delusion at first and then morbid curiosity on Jaina’s part and little else. That became harder to believe the more it happened, the more Jaina found excuses to be near her or touch her and smile at her sweetly as if she wasn’t a hideous mockery of a better woman.

The way Jaina _looked_ at her during the celebrations after Ulduar as they danced flitted through her thoughts, the only fools brave enough to cross factional lines at a party that was meant to symbolise the unity between the Horde and Alliance. Jaina had been absolutely radiant, and it had taken considerable will to resist kissing her that night.

It wouldn’t have been right to do that to Jaina, least of all in front of everyone. Their dancing was spectacle enough.

Sylvanas sighed deeply and shoved that particular image out of her mind, stubbornly ignoring the heavy feeling it lodged behind her breastbone.

She stripped off her armour’s outer layers and neatly set them aside until she was only in her leathers and settled in one of the armchairs to keep an eye on the fire.

The warmth seeped into her easier without extra layers in the way.

She was disturbed from her fire watching by a static tingling at her belt, and belatedly realised someone was trying to contact her. Straightening, she pulled the communication crystal out and swiped her thumb across the glowing number one on its surface.

“Warchief, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

Anduin’s voice made her ears flatten. The thought that Genn was lurking over his shoulder made her sneer, but she kept it out of her voice. “Not at all, we meant to contact you earlier, but the political situation in Kul Tiras is a little more unstable than we would have liked. We are handling it, however.”

“How is Jaina doing?”

“You could have called the Lady Proudmoore herself if you wished to know that, Little Lion.”

“She wasn’t answering. I worried.”

Sylvanas glanced at the bathroom door. “She is in the shower, I believe.”

“A-Ah, my mistake, but she _is_ well, yes?”

“She is safe and taken care of.”

“Good. That’s good.”

She returned her gaze to the crackling fire. “Any news on the hunt for Azshara?”

“None, I’m afraid. Ashenvale has been cleared of N’Zoth’s presence, and the wisp wall has finally dissipated. Stormrage’s body was found the morning after and returned to his people.”

“How is the High Priestess handling it?”

“With strength, as a matter of fact, I believe she intends to launch a counteroffensive when her people have finished settling Hyjal, though I’m unsure how. I’ve heard mention of a ritual with Elune but nothing substantive.”

“And the Wound?”

Anduin sighed. “The Earthen Ring has made a breakthrough in calming the local elementals in brief intervals, enough to communicate and get a clearer picture of what’s going on beneath the surface. It’s not good, but at least they have a better idea of what they’re dealing with. Magni is working hard with the Pact Council to track down azerite leaks.”

They went back and forth over the details of Silithus for a couple more minutes before Anduin let her go. She dwelt on the conversation only for a moment before she made a point of contacting both Baine and Nathanos, the former to make sure Orgrimmar wasn’t on fire in her absence and the latter to make sure he wasn’t considering the rope to escape his duties.

She found the answer was ‘no’ to both.

Despite his overdramatic grumbling and long-suffering tone, Nathanos was handling himself as expertly as ever, doing his part in watching the Little Lion and advising on behalf of the Horde where necessary. He even made a dry quip about having Cedric visit just to see Greymane twitch some more.

On the other side of the world, Baine handled the day-to-day running of things almost perfectly. With a little more time to adjust, he would be completely at ease with the responsibility.

She let him go with a polite goodbye and sat staring into the fire, overcome with a strangely heavy feeling of—she wanted to say it was relief. It _had_ to be relief. She was _relieved_ to hear that Baine could slip so easily into the role, just as she expected him to. It meant she was likely much closer to no longer being needed than she first thought, as long as he could carry the mantle without faltering beneath its weight, then perhaps…

Her thoughts meandered in a molasses of uncertainty and unbidden, her eyes slid from the fire to her hands, calloused and spindly, nails black. She followed the stark white scars that cut through her ashen skin, permanent, physical reminders of his destruction, and her aberrant nature. As if she could ever forget.

The sound of Jaina emerging from the bathroom made her jolt, clenching her hands on the armrests.

Jaina stood in a plain, cream robe from her pack, her usual battledress folded over her arms. Her shoulders were hunched, her hair loose and swept to one side. “Any news?” she asked mildly after clearing her throat, moving through the room behind Sylvanas’s chair.

She flatly repeated what Anduin told her, glancing up briefly as the main light switched off and perking her ears at the rustle of fabric as Jaina climbed into bed. She remained right where she was, soaking in the warmth of the fire, ready to add another log when needed.

A strange, heavy silence fell between them, one she broke with a quiet, “sleep well.”

And Jaina responded with an equally quiet, “thank you.”

It took a little while for Jaina’s breathing to slow, and Sylvanas let the heat of the fire lull her into a relaxed state.

* * *

The fire was down to embers when a whimper hit her ears.

Sylvanas stiffened, ears pricked and swivelling to pinpoint the noise. It sounded as if it came from behind her. Another whimper confirmed it, along with a mumbled plea of ‘don’t.’

She silently rose from her chair.

The room was barely lit by the dim glow of the fire, but she could see clearly as she slowly approached the bed, where Jaina was curled on her side, her back to the edge of it and her hands clenched tight in the sheets.

Her face was contorted in distress, and she mumbled something unintelligible in a pleading, fractured tone of voice, clearly in the grip of a nightmare.

Disturbing an Archmage as powerful as Jaina from a nightmare could easily result in being perforated by ice spikes. Still, the sight of Jaina struggling and afraid made something sharp twist behind her ribs, so despite herself, Sylvanas gingerly laid her hand on Jaina’s covered shoulder. “Proudmoore,” she said, low and firm, “wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Jaina flinched awake, freezing the moment her eyes snapped open. They burned white in the darkness, and a pulse of arcane swept through the room like a wave that snuffed out the fire, casting a net of diaphanous threads, glowing blue and purple in the air.

The smell of samphire was nearly overpowering.

Sylvanas stood perfectly still, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It was just a dream," she said, so softly that the double-tone of her voice nearly vanished, "you are _safe,_ Jaina.”

Jaina breathed for a moment, staring into nothing before she slowly relaxed enough for the arcane net to float to the ground and dissipate. Had she felt threatened, the entire room would have looked like it lost a fight with a goblin shredder.

Sylvanas wondered briefly if Jaina would have been aware enough to leave her out of said shredding. Pushing the thought aside, she watched the white fire of Jaina’s eyes fade back to soft blue and tried to pull her hand away.

Without looking, Jaina grabbed it like a drowning person grabbed a rope, knuckles white, nails digging into the skin. Her hand was terribly warm, the shock of it caused Sylvanas to freeze, but it was also tremoring. “Please,” she whispered, “please, can you stay?”

Some rational corner of her mind screamed at Sylvanas to pull back, to put space between them, to excuse herself and relight the fire, anything else but do as Jaina asked. A dead thing was no source of comfort. Her hands were for killing and maiming, not soothing. But Jaina grasped her hand as if it could be, as if she hadn't burned Jaina before, and it pulled at that heavy feeling behind her sternum.

A small voice at the back of her mind jeered that it was only desperation and lack of options. Jaina surely wouldn’t reach for _her_ of all people if she had any other choice.

Despite the screaming in her thoughts, Sylvanas gave in to the plea. Ever so carefully, watching for the slightest show of regret or revulsion, she lowered herself to the bed and slid into place behind Jaina. The thick, burgundy quilt kept them from pressing too close together, but Jaina nonetheless fit quite neatly against her, with that head of snowy hair easily tucking under her chin.

She cautiously slid her arm around Jaina’s waist, and the grip on it loosened a little, relaxing with the rest of her.

Without thinking, Sylvanas dipped her chin, realising only as soft hair brushed her mouth what exactly she was about to do and swallowed hard, pressing her lips into a flat line. She had been given far more than she deserved already.

She screwed her eyes shut and took a steadying breath, which only served to swaddle her in the smell of heather. Something deep in her chest nearly wrenched out of place. “Sleep,” she murmured, somehow keeping her voice steady. “I will be right here.”

Jaina did not speak again, too tired to even try as she sank back into slumber, and for that small mercy, Sylvanas was eternally grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> If you haven't read it already, that dance Sylvanas was thinking about? [I wrote it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473638) Enjoy. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	15. Yo Ho, Yo Ho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang finally make it to Freehold, find a potential ally, and witness azerite in action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, time for more plot shenanigans.

The grey light of morning greeted Jaina when she opened her eyes, along with a subtle ache in her hands and shoulders. She sighed and considered it an average day before freezing as the memory of last night rushed to the fore.

She quickly turned over, but Sylvanas wasn’t there, and that was when she noticed the sound of the shower. The thought that she had dreamt it in some truly desperate attempt at self-comfort crossed her mind, and she eyed the pillow Sylvanas would have lain on it if were real.

Hesitating for a long moment, Jaina worried her lower lip between her teeth before she slowly lowered her face to the pillow and breathed in the faint smell of tulips, the sting of saronite never far behind.

Warmth rushed to her cheeks.

Sylvanas had been there, pressed against her back, _holding_ her.

Jaina swallowed and ran her hands through her hair, trying to parse the thick tangle of emotions sitting abrupt and heavy in her chest.

Before she could get too far into it, however, she was distracted by a static buzzing that drew her eyes to a pouch on the bedside table. Someone was trying to get in contact.

She pulled her communication crystal from the pouch and swiped across the number seven.

“Lady Proudmoore?” came Marahdo’s deep, gentle voice.

“Good morning, Farseer. I’m sorry, we meant to contact you all earlier than this. Are you alright?”

“I am quite well, thank you, and not to worry. The storm caught _all_ of us off guard. No one made it to Freehold. However, Keleria and Mr Fairwind had a more adventurous time of it than the rest of us.”

Jaina sat up at that, frowning. “What happened?”

“Their investigation at Bridgeport led them to infiltrate one of the ships delivering azerite. They wanted to be sure the information was correct. The ship ran afoul of sirens and crashed just down the coast from Freehold. It spilt azerite everywhere, and they spent most of the night dealing with that mess.”

“Tides, are they okay?”

“Yes, barring a few scrapes and Mr Fairwind’s bruised pride.”

Jaina breathed a sigh of relief.

Marahdo asked carefully, “And what of you, Lady Proudmoore? You and the Warchief found shelter, I hope?”

“Y-Yes. We’re at the Iceheart Manor at the top of Winterdeep Pass.”

“Then I shall meet you there, and we can rendezvous with the rest of our companions if that is agreeable? Taelia is bringing food.”

“Yes, that’s agreeable. Before you go, what of _your_ investigation?”

Marahdo hummed thoughtfully. “Our amulets seem capable of mending these surface ruptures once they absorb enough of the overflow. There is a crack somewhere deep in Kul Tiras’s bedrock that appears connected to every other rupture in the region, but I could not accurately map it out. I will need to find more as we move.”

“It’s a relief to know you can seal the breaks, at least.”

“That it is. See you soon, Lady Proudmoore.”

The call dropped, and Jaina took a deep breath to steady herself. She pushed the thought of last night away and slid out of bed to get dressed. All she was missing was her cloak and gauntlet when Sylvanas emerged fully dressed from the bathroom, armour and all, her face impassive.

Jaina swallowed. “Good morning,” she murmured.

“Good morning,” Sylvanas replied neutrally, passing by to sort through her small pack and count the arrows in her quiver as if she _didn’t_ know how many she had at any given moment. “Is there news from our allies?”

Jaina relayed what the Farseer told her, causing Sylvanas to nod and pick up her things, pack, quiver, and bow all in place before her elven visage and armour shifted in a ripple of shadow to the unassuming hunter.

Once her own disguise was in place, Jaina made sure she left nothing behind before they walked downstairs.

The clerk took the key back with a somewhat groggy ‘safe travels,’ and they stepped out into a freshly blanketed Tiragarde. The overcast sky meant they weren’t blinded by glare, at least, but Jaina shivered slightly as the freezing air hit her and pulled her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders.

Silence fell between them like a fresh corpse neither were willing to acknowledge, Jaina staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and Sylvanas rigidly standing an arm’s length away, hands clasped in that ever-present military stance.

Mercifully, only a moment later did a half-drust man in chainmail come jogging up the road, with short black hair, pale blue eyes, and the crisp petals of a single winter’s kiss tucked behind his ear. The last thing was most certainly _not_ part of the illusion Jaina wove.

Jaina lifted her hand, and he smiled once he was close enough to recognise their disguises. “Taelia will meet us just outside Freehold, as will the Battlelord and Mr Fairwind,” Marahdo said, then addressed Sylvanas, “the rangers will be there too. They seemed a bit restless after waiting all night.”

Sylvanas only nodded in acknowledgement.

* * *

Freehold used to be a bustling fishing port at one point in time before a particularly savage storm hit and left it vulnerable. The local pirates swept in, killing and pillaging until the last survivors were run out of town and declared it a free port. By the time the rest of Kul Tiras was in any position to retaliate, the pirates were too deeply entrenched to result in anything but a protracted conflict at a time when they were still recovering from the storm.

And now there was a pirate hub thriving on her nation’s doorstep, a hive of cruelty where the worst of the lot did they pleased, and one could have _anything_ they wanted for enough gold, be it blood sport, illicit goods, or bodies.

The high perch of a sheltered outcropping gave her a perfect view of it all, flanked by stubborn pines digging their roots into the rocky ground, curved by frequent high winds.

It wouldn’t take Jaina all that much to wipe Freehold off the map all on her own, but she only thought about it for a moment. There were innocent people trapped in Freehold who needed rescuing before she could consider anything that destructive. Besides, if they could oust the pirates, the buildings were still useful.

Flynn and Keleria were about as miserable a wet cats after spending a night cold, soaked and harassed by Sirens. A flask of hot tea and sausage rolls courtesy of Cyrus elevated them from ‘miserable’ to ‘mostly alive.’ Alive enough to share everything they managed to ascertain before the rest of them arrived.

“There’s been a bit of an upset. Used to be, all crews were welcome in Freehold so long as they respected the top dogs, but now there’s only one, the Irontide Raiders and their leader, Harlan Sweete,” Flynn explained, his brow furrowed gravely. “I know the man. He was my first mate when I wasn’t as… _careful_ about the company I keep.”

“You used to be a pirate?” Marahdo asked without judgement.

Flynn nodded, his shoulders dropping. “Aye, before it got messy and a lot of innocent people got hurt. Not enough soap in the world to clean off that stain, but I’m trying.”

“You’re not only one here with blood on their hands,” said Jaina, grimly, “trying is the best we can do.”

Flynn smiled gratefully.

Jaina nearly jumped out of her skin as the dark rangers emerged from nearby shadows as if melting out of them and chided herself for the reaction. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen any of them do it. She just hadn’t been expecting it right then and there.

“Report,” Sylvanas commanded.

“It’s as Mr Fairwind explained,” said Velonara, “the Irontide Raiders have assumed dominion over Freehold. They’ve pressed most of the smaller crews into their service, and they’re gearing up for something big.”

Jaina surveyed the town again, frowning. Something was gnawing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Anything else?” she asked absently.

Velonara’s ears dropped back a little. “We could sense void magic in some areas, a supply cave under the western bridge, the tallest house on the south-eastern side of the island, and a ship down in the northern quay, the Silver Starling. It arrived ten minutes before you did.” Her brows knitted. “We also heard the name ‘Sally’ mentioned a couple of times concerning a house by the same quay, I presume the one being actively guarded.”

Jaina turned to face her, brows up. “Sally Ashvane?”

“It could be. The way they spoke made her seem like an important prisoner.”

“If she’s still alive, she could help us turn the tide against Priscilla, and someone needs to take over when it’s done.”

She glanced at Sylvanas. “Can your rangers investigate these void sources more thoroughly?”

Sylvanas arched a brow, to which Jaina shrugged. “They’re not _mine_ to order around.”

Assenting, Sylvanas made a dismissing gesture that caused the three elves to salute and vanish back into the shadows.

Jaina nodded in thanks, turning her attention to the rest of their little team. “I’d like the rest of you to disrupt operations and see what you can dig up about Ashvane’s business here. If you find people who need rescuing and you can get them out safely, do it.”

Nodding, Flynn glanced between her and Sylvanas. “I assume you’ll be chatting up Miss Sally then?”

Jaina smiled thinly. “We’ll certainly find out if she’s on our side. Stay in one piece.”

Parting ways, Sylvanas followed her down the winding path that brought them down from the cliffs and into Freehold. Few bothered to look at them on the edge of town where the Raiders hadn’t yet expanded their dominion. Their grip seemed strongest on the main island, so walking down to the northern quay wasn’t an issue.

The quay itself was bereft of activity, with only the Silver Starling and a few small fishing boats present. Again Jaina felt that scratching at the back of her thoughts but couldn’t place what was wrong. She focused on finding the house Velonara spoke of.

Most buildings along the waterfront were old shuttered pubs and shops and various warehouses, but behind them and pressed to the salt-washed cliffs were houses and flats, many of them in a similar state of disuse.

At the end of the quay, a larger house sat in noticeably better nick, a stoutly built, two-storey place with the windows blacked out but the door guarded by two large drust men who glared at anyone who passed a little too closely.

Jaina eyed the windows sidelong from a few closed shop fronts away, trying not to draw the guard’s attention, when Sylvanas touched her arm and motioned to the Silver Starling.

She turned her head to be met with the curious sight of a tidesage stepping off the gangway of what was clearly a Raider ship by the sails’ colour and its more gruesome stylings.

He walked unimpeded by the pirates, glowered at perhaps, but left well alone. He marched down the quay and right up to the two drust guards, who let him in after a brief, hushed conversation.

Jaina’s stomach writhed, her mind racing with possibilities. Either it was isolated, or House Stormsong was deeply compromised, and a sinking feeling in her gut leaned hard towards the latter as she considered the correspondence they pulled from the Ashvane Foundry.

She turned and walked away just enough to duck into an alley between two shops, wordlessly followed by Sylvanas onto the dark and narrow street beyond that threaded between the houses and the towering cliffs. She navigated carefully towards the back of the protected house, watchful for extra guards but finding none.

Instead, she found the doors to a storm cellar held shut by a heavy padlock that bore no signs of rust.

Sylvanas held up her hand in a warning gesture, right before Kalira stepped out of the shadows a few paces from them.

Jaina raised a brow. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

“I was investigating the boat. Nothing out of the ordinary save a cabin that reeked of blood and oil. It had all sorts of strange scrolls and books, and there was iconography painted on the walls. Lots of eyes and tentacles,” Kalira explained, frowning. “I took this.”

She produced a necklace from her belt, a string of prayer beads carved from whale bones. The beads were dyed almost black, save for how they shined deep shades of blue and green when the light hit them just right, colours of the ocean deep.

Jaina clenched her jaw. It really was a tidesage, not someone dressed up as one. “Painted, you said?”

Kalira nodded grimly. “Yes, and not artfully, it looked frenzied, and it was definitely blood. I just couldn’t tell from what, but I would hazard sentient of some description. These types do so _love_ that.”

Jaina exhaled through her nose and knelt at the storm cellar doors. She closed her eyes and focused on reaching out for something very specific before releasing a scrutinising pulse of magic subtle enough to go unnoticed but precise enough to find exactly what she was looking for.

There was an entity of the void very nearby, behind sound cancelling wards no less.

She rose to her feet. “This is the house you believe Sally to be in?” she asked without taking her eyes off the cellar doors.

Kalira nodded in her periphery. “Yes.”

Frowning, Jaina touched the tip of her staff to the heavy lock on the doors and fractured it with a burst of arcane energy.

Kalira said, “I’ll keep eyes on the trees,” and ran to the front of the house, vanishing mid-stride.

Sylvanas said nothing and pulled a wicked-looking dagger from her hip, using her free hand to help Jaina quietly pull the doors open.

Before Jaina could move in, Sylvanas headed down first, shadowy energy gathering in her empty outstretched hand. Jaina carefully slipped into the gloom behind her, down a long, slightly curving set of deep stone steps into a large cellar paved with heavy flagstones and held up by thick wooden pillars. It was lined with crates, barrels and deep shelving, most of it dusty.

The only light was from a lantern hanging over a chair in the middle of the room, to which was tied a woman in a bloodied vest and dark pants, staring at them with bright, hard eyes. Sweat and fresh blood dripped down her face, brown hair hanging loose in front of it.

Jaina felt the wards prickle her skin and little else, they weren’t designed to keep people out, just to keep sound from passing through, but the tidesage definitely _knew_ when they stepped through them.

He lunged from the darkness, void energy engulfing the knife he swung at Sylvanas. She ducked away from it at first, but in the cramped quarters, he slashed again and clipped her cheek.

The Banshee hissed and kicked out, which nearly did him in then and there as her undead strength all but reduced his ribs to splinters in a hideous _crunch_.

The back of her neck prickled, and Jaina scowled, releasing a precise burst of dispelling magic.

The illusion cloaking the tidesage immediately buckled, falling away as he spat blood and wheezed painfully. Scaled, purple skin rippled into sight, the face of a human melting off like wax to reveal baleful yellow eyes and the bald, tentacled visage of a hissing k’thir.

He spewed dark violet, acidic phlegm that rapidly ate into one of the pillars when it barely missed her.

Teeth clenched, Jaina threw out her hand and impaled him in a scattershot of ice blades, pinning him to the floor like a frozen porcupine.

He twitched for only a moment, bleeding inky blood onto the flagstones that let off the smell of gasoline.

When all was still, Jaina zeroed in on the slash in Sylvanas’s cheek. Her stomach clenched at the sight, but rationally she knew the more pressing issue was the woman in the chair.

Swallowing her concerns, Jaina approached with her shoulders squared. “Who are you?” she asked firmly.

“Who’s asking? I have a lot of enemies these days,” said the woman carefully, thrusting her chin out. She was tall and solidly built, with delicate features and dark, cunning eyes that didn’t chill Jaina like Priscilla’s did. No, that intelligence wasn’t backed by a cruel heart, at least not at first glance.

Jaina let her illusion drop and pushed her hood back. “Jaina Proudmoore.”

The girl’s eyes went wide, brows shooting to her hairline. “Tidemother’s tits,” she muttered, “Well, things must be _really_ fucked if you’re back. I’m guessing my cousin wasn’t delighted to see you.”

“Nor my mother.”

 _“_ Well, look at us, big family disappointments. Sally Ashvane, a pleasure. We can talk about how to kick Priscilla out on her arse when I’m _not_ tied to a chair. That is why you were looking for me, isn’t it? I’d really hate to die sitting down.”

Narrowing her eyes, Jaina touched the fingertips of her free hand to Sally’s brow.

The girl tensed, jaw setting in a defiant look, but she didn’t move her head away.

Focusing on the same energy as before, Jaina’s eyes flared white as she released a searching pulse through Sally’s body and found nothing of the void hiding within her. She felt the tidesage through his illusion—it would have to be enough.

Sighing, Jaina dropped her hand and nodded, prompting Sylvanas to cut her loose. “It is. I came here to convince Kul Tiras to work with the Alliance and the Horde so we might survive together instead of perishing apart. Priscilla is threatening the stability of Kul Tiras, so we need to deal with her first.”

Sally slowly eased to her feet, wincing as she gingerly touched her wrists, rubbed bloody by the ropes. There were bags under her eyes, bruises old and new across her arms and face. She looked every bit like she’d had a rough time of it, but the hard determination in her eyes spoke volumes. “You’ve got a lot of brass, I’ll give you that,” she said, a little incredulous, only for a grin to stretch across her face, “But I’d expect nothing less from a Proudmoore. Let’s get out of here, aye?”

Being positively associated with her family name was jarring, to say the least, so Jaina ignored it in favour of weaving an illusion on herself and Sally.

They walked from the cellar with Sylvanas behind them, Jaina helping Sally up the stairs as she grinned through the pain. The way back to the outcrop they surveyed Freehold from was slow going, but eventually, they made it, allowing Sally to sit down on a fallen tree and catch her breath while Jaina caught her up with everything.

The girl was unexpectedly on board with it all. “I knew the isolation would fuck us eventually,” she said bitterly, “sure, we trade, but none of it means anyone is going to rush to our defence. We start showing cracks like it’s all about to fall apart? Our ‘partners’ will drop us faster than we can blink.”

Sylvanas eyed her. “Was that why you challenged Priscilla?”

Sally shook her head and promptly winced, rubbing her temple. “Didn’t know it was an option at the time. No, I challenged her because she was getting worse. Ever since Theramore, she just kept getting worse, colder, meaner, like she stopped caring about doing what was good for the nation and only what was good for her. And she doesn’t even seem _happy_ about any of it, not the gold or the influence.”

She paused, her expression turning sombre. “She’s just _angry_ all the time, and no one can get to her. I _really_ wish it hadn’t come to this. But she’s going too far, the labour, the pirates, the sorcerous shit, our people are hurting, and they deserve better.”

“Are you willing to kill her?”

“Yes. I don’t want to. The challenge I issued was to first blood, but if I have to, _yes_.”

Sylvanas held her stare for a long moment before nodding once and looking away.

Jaina eyed her. “It won’t look good for _any_ of us to kill her.”

Sally nodded grimly. “Aye, she’ll just ignore it if I challenge her again, and most folk will take issue with a traitor or the _Warchief_ killing the head of a House. Best option would be to expose her for all her dealings and leave her to the laws of Kul Tiras. After all this, she’ll be lucky to get the rope instead of Fate’s End.”

Jaina opened her mouth only for the flapping of large feathered wings to draw her attention skyward.

Taelia landed just short of them at the same time Kalira stepped out of the shadows. “I thought it might be best to get her back to Boralus,” Kalira explained.

“Flynn found contracts and a few letters connecting Priscilla to the Raiders,” Taelia informed them, looking grim. “It looks like she’s been working with Harlan to weaken Kul Tiras while the fleet is gone, but they’re digging for more.”

Jaina nodded and froze.

Fleet.

The word rang through her thoughts like a bell. She rushed to the edge of the outcrop, scouring the docks throughout Freehold and the waves beyond it.

It was far, far too empty.

She reached for her communication crystal only for it to start buzzing in her hand and displaying the number seven. She swiped across it, answering, “Farseer?”

Flynn’s voice came through instead. “Oh! Good. You’re still alive,” he said, sounding worryingly nervous and very much like he was running. “You know, there sure aren’t a lot of ships present for so many pirates and come to think of it, the main island? Not as many pirates as there should be either.”

“They’re attacking something.”

“Unfortunately!”

Jaina tried to rub the scowl from her brow. “Flynn!”

“Right! It seems they took the azerite munitions Priscilla gave them, sent some of them to Boralus, but took _most_ of them to go and attack Daelin’s Gate.”

Her blood ran cold. “Do you know when they left?”

Flynn’s voice was grim. “About an hour ago, if they had any rogue mages or what have you on their side, they could be there already! They want to make Katherine look weak, so she hands control of the Admiralty to Priscilla and turns Harlan into the bloody fleet commander!”

Rushed movement drew her eye to a pack of five runners, two drust, three humans, two of them hooded and one in an oilskin coat. Jaina whirled, “hold on!”

She dropped the call and looked at Taelia. “Take her back to Boralus, right now, tell Cyrus everything!”

Sally stood as if to protest but winced, staggering. “Fuck,” she hissed, “what are _you_ going to do?”

Jaina’s eyes flared as she grabbed Kalira and Sylvanas by the arm. “Protect my home,” she growled. The blink took them down the path, dropping them right in front of Flynn and the rest, who skidded to a halt.

Weaving the spell quickly, Jaina focused on Vigil Hill in her mind, on the great Gate that kept Kul Tiras safe against numerous assaults when it was whole and stood together. She swallowed against a rise of nausea in her throat and tore open the portal, snarling, “go!”

Their group rushed through, hurrying out onto a rocky hill overlooking the Gate, the town of Vigil Hill sitting safely behind it, and the dozen Irontide Raider ships outside it.

The main Gate covered the larger channel, the secondary too small for most ships, certainly for the Raiders preferred vessels. Both towered, grand, imposing structures of the strongest steel House Berglund ever forged, they had withstood countless attacks without a single breach, and at the first barrage of cannon fire it tore like _paper_ in a burst of gold and blue explosions.

A strange, metallic seethe came with the familiar dull, boom, the azerite munitions crackling and jingling in an alien noise.

The air flooded with ozone and panicked screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fine :)


End file.
